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STRANGE  TALES  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


CAVERNS  OF  HORROR 


THE  DOOR  TO  SATURN 


ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 
AUGUST  DERLETH 
H.  G.  WELLS 


HOPE  •  CONTENTMENT  • 
UNDERSTANDING  •  ENTERTAINMENT 

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magazine 


o  f 


HORROR 

and  strange  stories 


CONTENTS  FOR  NOVEMBER 


INTRODUCTION  . . . . . . - .  4 

CAVERNS  OF  HORROR  .  Laurence  Manning  5 

PRODIGY  . - . . .  Wait  Liebscher  30 

THE  MASK  . . .  Robert  W.  Chambers  34 

THE  LIFE-AFTER-DEATH  OF  MR.  THADDEUS  WARDE 

.  Robert  Barbour  Johnson  50 


THE  FEMININE  FRACTION  .  David  Grinnell  66 

DR.  HEIDEGGER’S  EXPERIMENT  .  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  71 

THE  PACER  .  Augtist  Derleth  81 

LOVECRAFT  AND  “THE  PACER”  (excerpt)  .  August  Derleth  91 

THE  MOTH  ...» . . .  H.  G.  Wells  93 

THE  DOOR  TO  SATURN  .  Clark  Ashton  Smith  103 

IT  IS  WRITTEN  (Readers’  Letters  and  Editor’s  Comment)  . .  121 

While  the  greatest  diligence  has  been  used  to  ascertain  the  owners  of  rights,  and  to 
secure  necessary  permissions,  the  editor  and  publisher  wish  to  offer  their  apologies 
in  any  possible  case  of  accidental  infringements. 

Robert  A.  W.  Lowndes,  Editor 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR.  Vol.  I,  No.  6.  November  1964  (whole  number  6). 
Published  bi-monthly  by  Health  Knowledge,  Inc.  Executive  and  editorial  offices 
at  119  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  3.  N.  Y.  Second  class  entry  pending,  Buffalo. 
New  York.  Annual  subscription  (6  issues)  *2.50  in  the  U.  S..  Canada  and  Pan 
American  Union.  Foreign  $3.00.  Single  copy.  5uc.  Manuscripts  accompanied  by 
stamped,  self-addressed  envelopes  will  be  carefully  considered,  but  the  publisher 
and  editors  will  not  be  responsible  for  loss  or  damage.  <S  1964  by  Health  Knowl¬ 
edge,  Inc.  All  rights  reserved  under  Universal,  Intern  '  '  * - '  —  h 


ivcntions.  Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


3 


I  wish  that  the  relatively  few  of  you  who  have  objected  to 
our  use  of  tales  from  the  old  masters,  not  on  the  grounds  that 
they  are  not  good,  but  that  they  are  “readily  available  every¬ 
where”  could  see  the  influx  of  letters  I  receive  from  readers 
who  welcome  these  stories  with  joy  and  say  they  have  not  seen 
them  before. 

It  reminds  me  of  my  own  experience  back  in  1930,  when  I 
first  began  to  read  the  science  fiction 'magazines  regularly.  The 
letter  departments  carried  letters  from  readers,  pleading  for  re¬ 
prints,  and  letters  saying,  no,  these  are  all  readily  available  at 
any  library.  I  noted  the  authors  whose  stories  were  asked  for: 
Verne  (novels  not  reprinted  in  the  magazines),  Wells  (ditto), 
A.  Merritt,  Ray  Cummings,  Garrett  P.  Serviss  (unreprinted 
novels) ,  Homer  Eon  Flint,  Austin  Hall  —  these  were  just  a  few. 
I  was  living  in  Darien,  Conn.,  at  the  time,  and  we  had  what  I 
had  thought  a  very  good  library  there.  (There  was  a  bigger  one 
in  Stamford,  but  in  those  days,  with  the  Depression  just  start¬ 
ing,  regular  trips  to  Stamford  were  not  feasible  —  and  I  wasn’t 
that  much  of  a  hiker.) 

What  could  I  find  there  in  Darien?  Poe  —  yes;  all  his  fic¬ 
tion.  Verne  —  there  was  Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  Under  the 
Sea,  The  Mysterious  Island,  From  the  Earth  to  the  Moon,  A- 
round  the  World  in  Eighty  Days,  Michael  Strogoff  —  that  was 
all.  Wells  —  The  Time  Machine  and  Other  Stories,  Tales  of 
Space  and  Time,  When  the  Sleeper  Wakes,  Men  Like  Gods,  The 
Island  of  Dr.  Moreau,  and  various  mainstream  novels.  (I  didn’t 
appreciate  The  Sea  Lady  in  those  days,  although  they  had  it.) 
A.  Merritt,  Ray  Cummings,  Garrett  P.  Serviss,  Homer  Eon 
Flint,  Austin  Hall,  and  later  when  I  looked  for  Ralph  Milne  Far¬ 
ley,  Otis  Adelbert  Kline,  and  George  Allan  England  —  nothing. 
There  were  some  Tarzan  books,  but  of  the  Burroughs  Mars 
series,  only  The  Warlord  of  Mars.  (I  was  very  fortunate,  I 
learned  later  —  what  if  it  had  been  only  The  God  of  Mars, 
which  ends  on  one  of  the  most  fiendish  cliffhangers  imagina¬ 
ble?)  In  fact,  most  of  these  science  fiction  and  fantasy  authors 
just  weren’t  heard  of  at  all. 

Some  of  this  material  could  be  found  in  bookstores  —  but 
(Turn  To  Page  126) 

4 


( ^averna  o}  error 


L  if  oCa  u  i 


c*  Wanning 


First  seen  in  colkboration  with  the  late  Fletcher  Pratt  ( The  City  of 
the  Living  Dead,  Science  Wonder  Stories,  May  1930),  Laurence 
Manning  became  a  favorite  with  science  fiction  readers  when  his 
series  of  tales.  The  Man  Who  Awoke,  appeared  in  Wonder  Stories 
in  1933.  The  demands  for  more  from  his  typewriter  brought  forth 
another  series,  the  tales  of  the  “Stranger  Club”,  which  appeared  in 
the  same  magazine  in  1933,  '34,  and  c55.  In  the  first  of  these,  The 
Call  of  the  Mech-Men  (WS,  November  1933),  we  learn  that  the 
“Stranger  Club”  is  a  very  exclusive  little  society,  which  does  not  wel¬ 
come  strangers  at  all.  There  is  no  sign  on  the  door,  and  the  bell  does 
not  ring;  you  have  to  have  a  key  to  enter.  The  author  explains:  “You 
see,  this  club  has  a  particular  purpose  for  existing.  The  meaning  of  its 
name  is  obvious  upon  entering  the  place.  The  door  opens  upon  a  large 
hall  from  which  branch  off  three  huge  rooms.  Close  to  the  ceiling 
along  the  hall  in  large  letters,  runs  this  motto:  —  TRUTH  IS  STRAN¬ 
GER  THAN  FICTION.”  Caverns  of  Horror  is  the  second  of  the  five 
“Stranger  Club”  tales,  and  our  thanks  go  to  Richard  Kyle  for  remind¬ 
ing  us  of  it 


SOME  TIME  has  passed 
since  I  first  told  you  about  the 
Stranger  Club  up  on  West  53rd 
Street.  I  have  spent  part  of  it  in 
the  great  lounge  listening  to 
stories  of  one  sort  or  another, 
but  they  must  wait,  for,  start¬ 


ing  in  this  room  last  month,  I 
have  been  led  into  as  extraordi¬ 
nary  an  adventure  as  any  I  have 
been  told  and  I  must  tell  it  as 
it  befell.  Perhaps  the  telling 
may  help  me  to  forget. 

I  suppose  women  are  more 


5 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


curious  than  men  about  some 
things.  Quiet,  reserved  men  who 
do  not  tell  all  they  know,  for 
instance,  drive  them  frantic  with 
curiosity.  Many  a  man  owes  a 
pretty  wife  to  the  mere  fact  that 
she  could  not  find  out  enough 
about  him  any  other  way  than 
by  marrying  him.  These  are  not 
idle  remarks,  for  Smithers 
(though  still  single)  is  just  that 
sort.  I  saw  him  once  at  a  char¬ 
ity  ball  at  the  Plaza  and  you 
could  fairly  see  the  feminine 
fingers  twitch  to  get  at  him  — 
but  then,  Smithers  seldom  at¬ 
tended  dances  and  the  word 
“mystery”  was  written  on  the 
carriage  of  his  body  and  in  the 
slow  amused  smile  that  looked 
out  from  his  handsome  face. 
But  the  oddest  thing  about 
Smithers  is  that  men  feel  the 
mystery  as  well.  At  the  club,  ev¬ 
ery  one  treats  him  with  exag¬ 
gerated  familiarity  whereas  no 
one  knows  him  really  well.  He 
has  a  curious  knack  for  imper¬ 
sonal  friendship.  This  story  is 
largely  about  Smithers. 

It  started  at  the  Stranger 
Club  on  a  Friday  evening.  My 
friend  Seeman  was  back  from 
his  latest  trip  to  Africa  and  I 
had  been  licking  my  lips  in  an¬ 
ticipation  of  a  good  varn.  So  far, 
however,  he  had  only  mumbled 
something  in  his  meek,  quiet 
voice  about  “trouble  with  the 
cannibals”  up  some  river  or 
other  where  he  had  been  pilot¬ 
ing  an  expedition  looking  for  oil. 
He  had  admitted  that  it  was  “a 


sort  of  a  war”  and  that  he  had 
had  to  “pot  a  few  of  ’em,”  also 
that  three  of  his  Basuto  porters 
had  “been  scragged.”  That  is 
just  exactly  like  Seeman.  To 
think  of  him  doing  things  in  a 
heroic  way  seems  absurd.  How 
nature  ever  managed  to  crowd 
his  adventurous  temperament 
and  brave  mind  into  that  dried- 
up,  meek-looking  little  body  of 
his  is  a  puzzle.  Also  present  at 
the  club  that  evening  was  Colo¬ 
nel  Marsh,  and  he  and  Seeman 
and  I  were  wandering  around 
the  great  lounge  talking  about 
Africa  and  examining  some  of 
the  heads  which  the  Colonel 
had  bagged  a  year  ago  and  pre¬ 
sented  to  the  Club.  In  particular 
was  the  head  of  a  huge  white 
rhinoceros  that  glared  down 
from  the  wall  on  the  right  of 
the  great  fireplace. 

SMITHERS  HAD  been  read¬ 
ing  and  drinking  whiskey  sodas 
in  the  library  and  we  had  the 
lounge  to  ourselves.  We  had,  I 
suppose,  talked  loudly  enough 
for  Smithers  to  overhear  us  in 
the  next  room.  At  all  events,  as 
we  stood  admiring  the  rhino, 
we  became  aware  that  Smithers 
was  beside  us.  We  eyed  him  si¬ 
lently  for  a  moment.  He  was 
staring  hard  at  the  head  on  the 
wall  and  finally  turned  around 
to  face  Colonel  Marsh  with  that 
teasing  amused  smile  on  his 
face.  Marsh’s  pipe-stained  mus¬ 
tache  bristled  and  his  face  grew 
redder  than  usual. 


Caverns 

“Quite  a  beast!”  said  Smith- 
ers,  with  a  half-smile. 

“Weighed  three  tons  —  shook 
the  earth  when  he  charged!” 
snapped  the  colonel. 

“But  I  suppose  you  had  a 
good  heavy  rifle?” 

“My  Martinson  express  - 
wished  it  had  been  a  howitzer!” 

Smithers  raised  his  eyebrows 
politely  and  sauntered  off,  leav¬ 
ing  the  worthy  colonel  sputter¬ 
ing  with  rage. 

“The  dam’  puppy!  I’d  like  to 
see  him  face  a  charging  rhino!” 

We  sympathized  warmly,  for 
both  Seeman  and  myself  had 
been  puzzled  by  Smithers  re¬ 
marks,  and  Seeman,  who  ought 
to  know,  told  Marsh  that  he 
rather  envied  him  that  head. 
Almost  any  one  except  a  fool, 
I  thought,  knew  that  the  white 
rhino  was  a  prize  from  both  the 
point  of  view  of  rarity  and  risk. 
Now  certainly  Smithers  was  not 
a  fool.  I  began  to  wonder  even 
then  and  curiosity  was  at  the 
back  of  my  mind  during  the  next 
hour  while  we  plied  the  heated 
colonel  with  cooling  drink  and 
smoothed  his  ruffled  sensibili¬ 
ties  in  the  quiet  tap  room. 
Smithers  had  not  actually  said 
anything  calculatd  to  insult,  but 
his  attitude  had  suggested  sheer 
scorn,  and  the  colonel  fumed 
long  over  it.  I  left  Seeman  and 
Colonel  Marsh  after  a  while  and 
sauntered  into  the  lounge  once 
more.  There,  legs  braced  apart 
and  arms  in  pockets,  stood 
Smithers  in  front  of  the  rhino. 


Of  Horror  7 

as  though  trying  to  stare  down 
those  glassy  eyes.  I  thought  to 
myself  that  if  Colonel  Marsh 
should  happen  in,  there  would 
be  a  certain  explosion  and,  of 
course,  even  as  I  glanced  around 
at  the  doorway,  there  he  was  — 
red  and  bristling! 

I  shuddered  and  closed  my 
eyes.  When  I  opened  them  a- 
gain,  the  two  were  facing  each 
other  —  the  one  lean  and  ironi¬ 
cal,  the  other  stout  and  furious. 
Smithers  put  his  hand  on 
Marsh’s  shoulder  paternally. 
“You  must  come  out  to  my  place 
and  have  some  real  snooting 
sometime!” 

“Take  your  hand  away,  sir! 
Dam’  puppy!  You  must  be 
drunk,  sir!” 

“Never  more  sober.  But 
what’s  the  matter?  Don’t  you 
like  shooting?” 

THE  COLONEL  boiled  over 
and  stamped  away  in  a  rage. 
Smithers  turned  to  us. 

“I  thought  he  liked  shooting! 
You  two  might  care  to  come  out, 
perhaps?” 

“Smithers,  you  are  drunk! 
You  live  in  a  respectable  Long 
Island  suburb  —  what  do  you 
propose  to  shoot?” 

Smithers  smiled  maddeningly. 
“I’ll  bet  one  thousand  dollars 
against  a  forty-four  dum-dum 
that  I’ll  jjive  you  more  game  to 
shoot  —  and  bigger  game  — 
than  ever  was  found  in  Africa!” 

From  the  other  side  of  the 
room  the  colonel’s  snort  sounded 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


like  a  maddened  beast.  Smithers 
turned  languidly  toward  him. 

“That  goes  for  you  as  well, 
Marsh!” 

“I  ought  to  take  it  —  just  to 
teach  you  a  lesson  —  I  will  take 
it!  You  and  Seeman  hear?” 

“But  Marsh,  he’s  drunk  — 
must  be!” 

“Drunk  or  sober,  it’ll  cost  him 
one  thousand!” 

I  ^shrugged.  After  all,  Smith¬ 
ers  was  rioi  enough  and  certain¬ 
ly  deserved  it. 

“All  right  —  is  it  a  bet,  Smith¬ 
ers?” 

‘Right  you  are!  When  shall 
we  say?  This  weekend?” 

Seeman  had  an  engagment, 
so  we  made  it  for  the  following 
week.  Smithers  looked  slowly 
from  one  to  the  other  of  us  and 
his  face  grew  serious. 

“Bring  elephant  guns  and  ex¬ 
plosive  shells,”  he  said  soberly, 
“and  I’d  suggest  leather  leggings 
and  heavy  shooting  jackets.  I’ll 
expect  you  Friday  evening!” 

And  he  saunterd  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  us  half-amused 
and  wholly  angry  at  him.  Big 
game  shooting  on  Long  Island! 
Well,  we  were  going  to  be  there 
(we  decided)  and  we  would 
take  the  man’s  money  without 
the  slightest  compunction! 

“After  all,  a  thousand  dollars 
is  worth  going  for,”  said  See¬ 
man  mildly  and  mixed  himself 
another  drink.  I  puzzled  a  mo¬ 
ment  over  the  incident.  If  the 
man  had  wanted  us  there  with¬ 
out  fail,  he  could  not  have  han¬ 


dled  the  invitation  better  than 
he  had.  But  why  did  he  want 
us?  Certainly  not  for  big  game, 
I  decided.  Then  what?  Could  it 
be  to  protect  himself  from  some¬ 
thing?  Perhaps  the  man  had  en- 
mies  —  unscrupulous  ones.  Pos¬ 
sibly  he  had  fallen  foul  of  gang¬ 
sters  or  racketeers  in  some  way, 
although  it  was  difficult  to  im¬ 
agine  the  aristocratic  Smithers 
mixed  up  in  such  matters. 

During  the  following  week  I 
became  more  and  more  con¬ 
vinced  that  the  invitation  was 
serious.  I  phoned  Seeman  who 
pooh-poohed  me  out  of  counte¬ 
nance. 

“He’ll  set  us  shooting  mice  or 
rabbits  —  that’s  about  it.” 

“Well  .  .  .  you  may  be  right. 
Rather  humorous  to  shoot  a 
mouse  with  an  elephant  gun, 
though.” 

He  laughed.  “Good,  man! 
Well  take  along  the  artillery  and 
we’ll  dress  the  part,  eh?  This 
will  tickle  the  colonel!” 

AND  SO  ON  Friday  after¬ 
noon  we  gathered  at  Marsh’s  a- 
partment  and  commenced  pre- 
arations.  We  wore  leather 
reeches  and  leggings  and  See¬ 
man  had  heavy  knee  boots.  We 
provided  ourselves  with  pith 
helmets  and  each  wore  leather 
bandoliers  filled  with  cartridges. 
We  emptied  two  pints  of  the 
colonel’s  Bourbon  during  the 
dressing,  and  under  such  inspi¬ 
ration  I  insisted  we  each  thrust 
two  revolvers  into  our  belts. 


Caverns  Of  Horror 


When  we  staggered  down  to  the 
car  with  our  heavy  rifles,  we 
must  have  made  an  extraordi¬ 
nary  picture.  The  doorman 
stared  and  the  Negro  elevator 
boy  swallowed  his  chewing  gum 
at  sight  of  us  and  almost  wreck¬ 
ed  the  car  before  we  got  down 
to  the  street  level.  Out  we 
marched  across  the  sidewalk  and 
into  the  car,  while  passers-by 
stopped  and  rubbed  their  eyes 
unbelievingly  at  the  sight:  I 
drove  until  we  were  across  the 
59th  Street  bridge  and  then 
stepped  on  the  accelerator. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  we 
arrived  at  Paulings,  on  the  north 
shore  of  Long  Island,  and  asked 
a  lonely  and  bored  traffic  po¬ 
liceman  for  direction.  He  gave 
it  as  though  he  wondered  what 
we  might  want  at  Smithers’.  He 
knew  the  house  well  enough; 
one  could  tell  that.  It  was  close 
to  sunset  when  we  turned  up 
Smithers’  drive.  His  place  was 
rather  unusual  —  a  large  area  of 
woods  through  which  the  drive 
curved  and  autumn  tints  on  the 
trees  made  it  doubly  attractive; 
then  a  broad  sweep  of  lawn, 
tree-dotted,  with  the  house  set 
on  a  knoll  and  beyond  that  a 
small  lake  in  a  dell  enclosed  by 
all  pine  trees.  We  just  had  a 
glimpse  as  the  day  died  and 
then  we  were  at  the  door  and  a 
lean-facd  butler  took  us  over 
from  the  footman  who  opened 
to  us.  We  were  led  into  what 
must  have  served  Smithers  for  a 
library. 


“Mr.  Smithers  is  expecting 
you  and  will  be  down  directly,” 
said  the  butler  as  he  left  us. 

He  came  within  the  minute 
and  stood  in  the  doorway,  cool 
and  smiling  eyeing  our  equip¬ 
ment  with  particular  care,  it 
seemed  to  me.  I  wondered  sud¬ 
denly  how  sober  he  had  been 
at  the  club  a  few  nights  ago, 
and  evidently,  the  colonel  was 
thinking  of  the  same  thing,  for 
he  had  the  grace  to  blurt  out, 
‘Were  here  for  that  thousand 
dollars  of  yours,  Smithers  — 
hope  you  haven’t  forgotten!” 

“Rather  not!  But  first  you 
must  judge  of  the  hunting;  after¬ 
wards  we  settle  the  bet!” 

“Oh  come,  Smithers,  what 
nonsense!  Do  you  still  keep  up 
the  pretense  of  big  game  here  on 
Long  Island?” 

Smithers  gave  him  a  quizzical 
look.  “We  eat  first  —  hunt  at 
night,”  said  he.  “Would  you  like 
to  wash  up?” 

ALL  THROUGH  dinner, 
Colonel  Marsh  and  I  endeavor¬ 
ed  to  pin  our  host  down  to  the 
details  of  the  “big  game”  he  pro¬ 
posed  to  present  us,  but  he  was 
very  noncommittal.  “Is  it  tame?” 
I  asked.  “Some  animals  you 
have  fenced  in  here  on  your  se- 
atte?”  He  shook  his  head  at  that. 

‘Wildcat?”  snapped  the  colo¬ 
nel.  Another  negative.  Seeman’s 
thoughts  were  unreadable  be¬ 
hind  that  fevered  yellow  face  of 
his.  But  over  our  dessert  he  ask¬ 
ed  the  most  startling  question  of 


10 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


all.  “Huntin’  man  tonight,  Smith- 
ers?”  I  gasped,  but  Smithers 
smiled  more  blandly  than  ever 
and  shook  his  head. 

“Don’t  you  think  you  had  bet¬ 
ter  tell  us,  so  that  we  can  be 
prepared?”  added  Seeman. 
“That  is,  if  the  whole  thing  real¬ 
ly  isn’t  a  joke  of  some  kind.” 

“You  will  have  time  to  judge 
for  yourselves  later  on.”  Smith¬ 
ers  said  simply. 

“Damn  it  all!  It’s  all  very  well 
for  you,  but  how  about  us?” 

“ Afraid ,  Colonel?”  asked 
Smithers  lazily. 

The  good  colonel’s  neck 
swelled  visibly  and  became  a 
deep  purple  tint.  His  mustache 
quivered,  and  the  lips  set  firm¬ 
ly.  Not  another  question  did  he 
ask,  and  it  was  half  an  hour  be¬ 
fore  he  spoke  to  Smithers  again. 
During  that  time  there  was 
something  upon  our  host’s  mind 
—  we  could  all  see  it.  He  was 
nervous  and  without  his  usual 
poise.  Several  times  he  cleared 
his  throat  as  if  to  say  something, 
but  changed  his  mind  every 
time.  Finally  he  rose  to  his  feet 
and  shepherded  us  into  a  curi¬ 
ous  round  room  —  not  more  than 
twelve  feet  across.  Upon  the 
walls  were  weapons  of  every 
conceivable  description.  Along 
the  baseboard  ran  drawers 
which  were  filled  with  ammuni¬ 
tion.  Four  cushioned  seats  were 
set  in  the  wall  in  pairs  —  sug¬ 
gestive  of  bunks  aboardship. 
From  under  one  of  these,  Smith¬ 
ers  drew  whiskey  and  soda  and 


four  glasses  ajnd  pulled  down  a 
small  folding  shelf  to  set  them 
on. 

“We  will  start  out  from  this 
room  in  a  few  minutes,”  he  an¬ 
nounced. 

And  now  we  all,  I  think,  be¬ 
gan  to  wonder  together  whether 
something  serious  might  not  lie 
ahead  of  us.  What  it  was 
puzzled  us  to  imagine.  A  barred 
and  grated  French  door  was  set 
opposite  the  entrance,  which 
had  been  closed.  To  this  I  went 
and  peered  out  at  the  darkness. 
I  could  make  out  lights  in  hous¬ 
es  some  distance  away  and  the 
stars  revealed  the  edge  of  the 
woods.  As  I  looked,  Smithers 
came  over  and  drew  heavy  cur¬ 
tains,  smiling  at  me  mysterious¬ 
ly- 

We  joined  him  around  the  ta¬ 
ble  and  sipped  our  drinks  qui¬ 
etly  while  Smithers  went  over 
our  equipment  carefully  and 
suggested  that  we  each  carry  a 
revolver,  bringing  the  necessary 
number  down  from  the  walls. 

“But  we  already  have  one 
each,”  expostulated  the  colonel. 

“These  throw  .44  explosive 
bullets,”  said  Smithers  quietly. 

THE  WHISKEY  was  strong, 
for  the  floor  seemed  unsteady 
once  or  twice  —  but  I  thought 
nothing  of  that  at  the  time.  The 
room  began  to  feel  oppressive 
and  close.  I  suggested  that  the 
window  be  opened,  and  Smith¬ 
ers  looked  at  me  portentously. 

“You  don’t  know  what  you 


Caverns  Of  Horror 


11 


ask,”  he  remarked,  and  Seeman 
cocked  his  head  slightly  sideways 
and  studied  him  with  his  ex- 
'  pressionless  eyes.  Colonel  Marsn 
fumed  a  second  and  then  ex¬ 
ploded  with  accumulated  an¬ 
noyance.  “Hr-r-rmph!”  he  said. 

iou  young  devil!  How  long 
are  you  going  to  keep  us  here? 
It’s  all  stuff  and  nonsense  —  it  is, 
don’t  deny  it!  I’ve  a  mind  to 
leave  your  house  this  instant!” 

His  face  fiery,  he  stamped  to 
the  door  by  which  we  had  en¬ 
tered  the  room  and  seized  the 
handle.  It  was  locked! 

“I  really  think,  Smithers,”  put 
in  Seeman  quietly,  “that  you’d 
better  explain!” 

He  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  of  us,  smiling  more  teas- 
ingly  than  ever.  “In  five  more 
minutes  we  will  leave  this 
room,”  was  his  answer.  “We 
will  go  out  and  commence  what 
will  be  the  most  exciting  and 
perhaps  the  most  dangerous 
hunting  you  have  ever  experi¬ 
enced.  When  we  return,  Colonel 
Marsh  here  will  gladly  pay  me 
the  bet.” 

The  room  was  stifling  by  now 
and  my  eardrums  throbbed  and 
my  head  ached.  Smithers  drew 
from  a  drawer  the  largest  hand- 
flashes  I  had  ever  seen  and  tried 
them,  one  by  one.  They  cast 
great,  searching  beams  of  light 
against  the  narrow  walls  of  the 
already  well-lighted  room.  Si¬ 
lently  he  handed  one  to  each  of 
us.  Then  he  prepared  one  more 
drink  all  around  and  bade  us 


down  it.  It  tasted  queer  and 
Seeman  eyed  him  sharply  at  the 
first  sip.  Smithers  flushed  slight¬ 
ly. 

“It’s  all  right,”  said  he.  “As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it’s  medicine. 
We’ll  need  it  where  were  going.” 
He  held  up  his  own  empty- 


glass  as  he  spoke.  When  we 
had  drained  our  glasses  and  set 


them  down,  he  cleared  them  a- 
way  and  made  the  room  ship¬ 
shape  once  again.  Then  he  op¬ 
ened  a  drawer  and  drew  out 
two  dynamite  bombs,  placing 
them  on  the  floor  beside  the 
curtained  French  door.  The 
floor  jarred  slightly  just  a  second 
before  he  did  so  and  the  walls 
seemed  to  quiver  an  instant  — 
a  matter  which  puzzled  me  and 
would  have  made  me  more  cur¬ 
ious  than  it  did  had  my  head 
not  ached  so  or  my  ears  not 
been  drumming  so  loudly  to  the 
pulse  of  my  heart.  Smithers 
pulled  aside  the  curtains  and 
lifted  a  heavy  bar  which  kept 
the  door  shut.  We  crowded  out 
into  the  night. 


II 

IT  WAS  BLACK  outdoors 
and  smelt  musty,  nor  was  the 
air  so  fresh  as  it  had  been  earli¬ 
er.  The  sky  was  evidently  over¬ 
cast,  also,  for  not  a  light  could 
be  seen  in  any  direction,  though 
I  strained  my  eyes.  It  was  death¬ 
ly  still  and  none  of  the  usual 
night  sounds  could  be  heard. 
The  nameless  oppression  upon 


12 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


my  senses  became  more  pro¬ 
nounced  than  ever  and  my  ears 
hurt  me  when  I  swallowed. 
Smithers  said,  “It’s  rocky  going, 
for  a  bit;  watch  your  stepr  and ' 
turned  his  flash  on  the  ground. 

We  were,  I  imagined,  going 
down  the  slope  to  the  little 
pond  behind  the  house,  but  I 
hadn’t  remembered  it  as  being 
so  steep.  And  there  was  hardly 
a  vestige  of  earth  over  the  jocks 
—  and  no  vegetation  whatever. 
This  puzzled  me  at  the  outset, 
but  after  we  had  walked  a  good 
half  mile  down  a  steep  boulder- 
strewn  incline,  I  was  much  more 
than  puzzled  —  I  was  amazed. 
Smithers  silenced  one  or  two  at¬ 
tempts  at  conversation,  and  we 
stepped  as  quietly  as  we  could, 
but  must  have  made  noise 
enough  to  be  heard  a  mile  away 
in  that  quiet  place.  Presently  he 
halted  and  turned  off  his  light. 
We  gathered  around  him  in  the 
intense  unearthly  darkness. 

“Now  we  must  go  carefully  — 
use  your  ears  as  much  as  your 
eyes,”  he  whispered. 

“Use  them  on  what?”  grunt¬ 
ed  Colonel  Marsh  from  the 
black  void. 

“I  can’t  tell  you.” 

“Why  not,  man?  Is  it  secret?” 

“There  are  no  words  in  the 
language  to  tell  you  —  I  have 
been  here  before  and  I  saw  .  .  . 

I  can’t  tell  you  what.  Don’t  you 
suppose  I  would  if  I  could?” 

“Will  you  tell  me  frankly,” 
put  in  Seeman,  “are  you  serious 
...  not  trying  to  play  a  joke?” 


Smithers  groaned  impatiently. 
“If  you  would  stop  whispering 
and  listen  and  look  you  might 
see  for  yourself!” 

As  he  spoke,  I  saw  something 
and  gripped  Seeman’s  arm  harcl 
It  was  a  faint,  distant  light, 
rather  phosphorescent,  I  imag¬ 
ined,  which  seemed  to  float 
through  the  air  a  hundred  yards 
away.  It  was  receding  and  van¬ 
ished  shortly  after  I  saw  it. 
Memories  thronged  to  my  mind 
of  tales  my  old  Scotch  nurse 
used  to  tell  me  when  I  was  a 
child  .  .  .  will-o’-the-wisps!  Sil¬ 
ly,  perhaps,  but  what  rational 
explanation  was  there? 

WE  HAD  all  four  of  us  seen 
it,  evidently,  for  not  a  man 
moved  —  we  barely  breathed. 
Then  three  tiny  sparks  showed 
at  some  distance  quite  undeter¬ 
minable  in  the  darkness  and 
seemed  to  play  with  each  other, 
dancing  in  a  dreamy  pattern  a- 
ganist  the  heavy  velvet  black. 
We  heard  Smithers  shuffle  for¬ 
ward  cautiously  and  followed 
him  in  a  bunch.  For  perhaps 
five  minutes  he  continued  — 
seeming  to  feel  his  way  with  his 
feet. 

“This  is  as  far  as  I  came  be¬ 
fore,”  he  said.  “It  drops  away 
here  sharply.”  As  he  spoke,  he 
flashed  his  light  down  at  his 
feet  and  we  started  back  at  the 
sight  of  a  sheer  cliff  twenty  feet 
or  more  deep,  with  a  flat  area 
extending  away  below  into  the 
darkness.  The  shock  of  sudden 


Caverns  Of  Horror 


13 


light  staggered  us.  Then  the 
light  flicked  off  and  we  could 
see  nothing  for  a  full  minute. 
But  we  heard  something!  As  if 
in  answer  to  the  light  signal,  a 
hissing  began  far  away  to  the 
right  and  Smithers  whispered, 
“Get  your  guns  and  lights 
ready  i 

I  flashed  on  my  light  at  once 
and  its  great  beam  cut  a  hole 
through  the  darkness  down  to¬ 
ward  the  hissing.  Something 
grayish-yellow  moved  there  .  .  . 
was  approaching.  It  seemed  an 
enormous  distance  away  but 
came  on  at  a  terrific  rate  of 
speed.  Then  it  began  to  take 
shape  and  form  to  my  eyes  and 
...  it  was  indescribable.  A  huge 
head  filled  with  needle-like 
teeth  and  soft-looking,  shapeless 
legs  —  that  may  give  some  idea. 
Tne  mouth  was  open  *and  its 
cavernous  size  shut  off  almost 
all  view  of  the  body.  I  had 
hardly  time  to  gasp  before  Colo¬ 
nel  Marsh’s  elephant  gun  went 
off  like  a  thunderclap.  He  must 
have  missed,  for  the  onrush  did 
not  pause  a  second.  The  hissing 
was  like  steam  escaping  from  a 
boiler  now  and  the  Thing  flung 
itself  against  the  rockv  bulwark 
as  Seeman  and  Smithers  fired 
point-blank  at  its  open  mouth. 
But  on  it  came,  the  momentum 
of  its  charge,  I  suppose,  enabl¬ 
ing  it  to  give  one  last  upward 
leap  that  brought  it  half  over 
the  ledge.  We  leaped  away  as 
the  explosive  bullets  burst  in¬ 
side  it,  and  my  torch  wavered 


off  the  huge  body  an  instant. 

When  I  turned  it  back  again 
in  fear  and  trembling,  half-ex¬ 
pecting  to  see  it  charging  me,  I 
illuminated  the  great  mass  ly¬ 
ing  inert  half  over  the  precipice. 

“Hold  the  light  steady,” 
Smithers  called  to  me.  “Let’s  try 
to  pull  it  all  the  way  up.” 

THE  THREE  of  them  tugged 
and  strained  for  a  few  minutes 
and  succeeded  in  moving  it  two 
feet.  I  moved  up  close  and  start¬ 
ed  back  at  the  odd  odor  —  like 
spoiled  eggs.  The  Thing  was 
easily  twelve  feet  long  and  must 
have  weighed  a  ton.  It  was 
brownish  yellow  and  hairlesg. 
But  the  mouth  was  the  startling 
part  of  it,  for  the  jaws  were  like 
two  semi-circles  three  feet  in  di¬ 
ameter  and  the  teeth  like  so 
many  spears  set  in  it  —  hun¬ 
dreds  of  them.  Somewhere  I 
vaguely  remembered  seeing  a 
mouth  and  teeth  like  that. 

“Great  God,  Smithers!  What 
is  the  thing?” 

“You  know  as  much  as  I.  Do 
you  suppose  we  could  get  it 
back  to  the  gun  room?” 

“Better  phone  the  police!  A 
beast  like  this  roaming  the  coun¬ 
tryside  .  .  .” 

“Hmmm!”  said  Smithers. 
“Quiet  a  moment!” 

We  strained  our  ears  and 
eyes.  One  of  the  distant  lights 
was  floating  toward  us!  As  we 
looked,  it  rose  over  our  heads 
and  swooped  down.  One  of  the 
guns  roared  out  as  my  light  re- 


14 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


vealed  a  black,  bat-like  flying 
creature.  The  body  twitched 
and  tumbled  at  my  feet.  I  stoop¬ 
ed  and  picked  it  up  in  amaze¬ 
ment,  for  its  mouth  and  teeth 
were  strongly  suggestive  of 
those  of  the  great  beast  we  had 
killed.  From  its  forehead,  a  long 
springy  tendon,  dangled  a  bul¬ 
bous  lamp  of  phosphorescence! 
Now  I  remembered  where  I  had 
seen  such  forms  of  life  —  photo¬ 
graphs  and  paintings  of  deep-sea 
monsters.  They  were  for  all  the 
world  like  it. 

“We  must  get  this  great  beast 
thrown  back  below!”  announced 
Smithers  suddenly  and  with  a- 
larm  straining  in  his  voice.  “For 
(Sod’s  sake  lend  a  hand!”  As  he 
spoke,  he  began  thrusting  and 
pushing  frantically  and  stopped 
a  second  to  call  out  to  me,  “And 
put  that  light  out!” 

I  did  so  and  we  all  helped 
him  at  his  task.  It  took  us  a  full 
two  minutes  in  the  dark  to  move 
the  carcass  a  foot  or  two  nearer 
the  edge,  where  it  slowly  top¬ 
pled  over  and  thumped  down 
to  the  ground  below.  “Now 
keep  quiet  for  your  lives!”  whis¬ 
pered  Smithers  from  out  of  the 
sudden  blackness. 

I  heard  something  then  —  a 
far-away  hissing  that  approach¬ 
ed  until  I  could  hear  the  soft 
thudding  of  great  shapeless 

!>aws  below  —  then  a  sudden 
oud  hiss  and  the  sound  of  jaws 
crunching  on  food.  After  a  few' 
seconds,  the  sounds  ceased  and 
another  distant  hissing  was  aud¬ 


ible  and  still  another  in  a  dif¬ 
ferent  direction,  both  approach¬ 
ing.  We  were  not  breathing  at 
all  by  now,  I’m  sure  of  it,  and 
the  hair  on  the  back  of  my  neck 
was  bristling  like  a  mastiff s. 
Suddenly,  a  furious  snarling  and 
crunching  and  scrambling  broke 
out  below  us  as  the  enormous 
beasts  quarreled  over  their  grue¬ 
some  .meal  and  so  dark  ana  ut¬ 
ter  was  my  blindness  and  so 
taut  my  nerves  that  when  I  felt 
a  touch  on  my  arm,  I  almost 
screamed  aloud.  But  it  was  See- 
man  pulling  me  away.  He  put 
his  mouth  to  my  ear  and  breath¬ 
ed:  “Smithers  says  to  get  back 
while  we  can.” 

WE  DARED  no  light,  but 
Smithers  seemed  to  know  the 
way,  and  we  stumbled,  sweat- 
sodden,  back  up  the  rocky  slope 
as  quietly  and  quickly  as  we 
could.  It  took  us  fifteen  minutes 
to  come  to  the  house  —  which 
was  itself  completely  shrouded 
in  the  darkness  —  and  the  only 
way  I  knew  we  were  there  was 
by  the  feel  of  the  doorway  and 
the  cold  iron  of  the  barred  door. 
This  was  slammed  to  behind  us 
and  the  heavy  bar  let  down  and 
the  curtain  pulled  across  before 
Smithers  flicked  on  the  electric 
lights.  And  even  then,  he  ut¬ 
tered  no  word  until  he  had 
pulled  and  adjusted  the  heavy 
curtain  so  that  no  light  should 
shine  through  into  that  horror- 
ridden  night  outside. 

Not  until  then  did  I  realize 


Caverns  Of  Horror 


15 


that  I  held  clutched  in  my  hand 
the  dead  body  of  the  luminous 
bat,  but  once  I  did  notice  it,  I 
smelt  it.  So  did  the  others.  It 
was  a  pretty  bad  stench,  as  such 


mings  go. 

“Throw  it  outside,”  said  the 
colonel. 

“No  ...  I  have  an  electric 
refrigerator  here.  Let’s  keep  it 
for  examination  tomorrow,”  and 
Smithers  pulled  out  another 
drawer  to  reveal  a  compact  elec¬ 
tric  ice-box.  Then  he  busied  him¬ 
self  wrapping  the  weird  thing 
in  wax  paper  and  seemed  to  me 
to  ask  needless  advice  and  to  be 
attempting  to  keep  all  three  of 
us  watching  him  —  as  though  he 
hoped  we  might  not  notice  some 
mysterious  matter  he  wished 
concealed.  When  the  ice-box 
was  closed,  he  examined  See- 
man’s  rifle  and  compared  it  with 
Colonel  Marsh’s.  That  left  me 
free  to  look  about  and  he  no¬ 
ticed  it  —  or  so  I  felt  —  and  sug¬ 
gested  that  we  needed  a  drink 
or  two  all  around.  He  took  a 
long  time  preparing  them,  and 
before  we  were  half  through 
downing  the  first,  he  suggested 
a  second. 

Seeman  looked  at  his  watch. 
‘Twelve-thirty!  No  more  for  me. 
I’ll  be  turning  in  about  now,  if 
you  don’t  mind.” 

Colonel  Marsh  glanced  up 
sharply.  “Before  the  police  are 
notified?  Do  you  realize  that 
those  beasts  out  there  are  a 
threat  to  the  safety  of  thousands 
of  unsuspecting  people?” 


Smithers  cleared  his  throat 
nervously.  “Who  would  believe 
you?”  he  asked. 

“I’d  bring  them  here  and  show 
’em.  Bring  a  regiment!” 

“Tonight?”  Smithers  smiled 
scornfully. 

That  aid  stump  us,  for  obvi¬ 
ously,  no  one  would  come  until 
morning  —  and  what  could  we 
do  to  protect  all  Long  Island 
between  now  and  morning? 

“But  you’ve  seen  them  before! 
Why  hasn’t  something  been 
done  before  this?  Where  could 
the  things  have  come  from?” 

SMITHERS’  FACE  became 
teasingly  earnest.  “At  dawn  to¬ 
morrow,  we  will  go  out  through 
this  door  and  you  will  under¬ 
stand  why  nothing  has  been 
done,”  said  he. 

“I’m  going  to  bed,  then,”  an¬ 
nounced  Seeman  and  strode  to 
the  door.  It  was  still  locked  and 
he  turned  impatiently  toward 
Smithers,  who  walked  slowly  up 
to  him  and  fumbled  for  a  key 
in  his  pocket.  He  took  forever 
to  get  it  into  the  lock  and  then 
he  did  not  turn  it,  but  as  if  a 
sudden  thought  had  struck  him, 
he  said:  “How  about  that  bet. 
Colonel?” 

That  worthy’s  mustache  bristl¬ 
ed  and  his  face  became  suffused 
with  the  color  of  annoyance.  T 
suppose  you’ve  won,”  he  admit¬ 
ted,  “but  it’s  a  terrible  thing  to 
claim  you  have  shown  us  dan¬ 
gerous  beasts  roaming  in  this  su¬ 
burb  and  in  the  same  breath 


16 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


deny  that  any  steps  should  be 
taken  to  protect  the  citizens!” 

And  then  I  felt  the  floor  give 
a  slight  jolt  and  I  saw  a  gun 
that  was  hanging  on  the  wall 
beside  me  quiver  slightly.  At  the 
same  instant,  Smithers  turned 
the  key  in  the  door  and  threw 
it  open.  We  walked  through  the 
hall  and  into  the  library.  Before 
we  were  shown  up  to  our  rooms 
for  the  night,  Smithers  assured 
us  very  earnestly  once  more  that 
he  knew  what  he  was  doing  and 
that  he  would  ask  us  not  to 
make  fools  of  ourselves  by  phon¬ 
ing  the  police  then.  “After  you 
have  looked  over  the  ground 
tomorrow,”  he  added,  “you  may 
do  as  you  please  —  you  will  be 
puzzled,  at  least.” 

Colonel  Marsh  grunted, 
thought  for  a  moment,  and  sub¬ 
sided  dubiously. 

SPEAKING  FOR  myself  I 
slept  little,  being  too  excited  for 
rest,  and  at  the  first  sign  of  dawn, 
I  rose  and  looked  out  of  the  win¬ 
dow  in  my  room.  From  it  I 
could  see  one  comer  of  the  lake 
and  the  slope  down  to  it.  Be¬ 
yond  rose  a  mere  handful  of 
pine  trees  and  they  screened  — 
another  house  beyond!  Where 
then,  had  we  seen  the  beasts 
last  night?  I  sat  there  bemused 
for  half  an  hour  and  then  dress¬ 
ed,  descended  to  the  library,  and 
discovered  Colonel  Marsh  fum¬ 
ing  un  and  down  the  room.  To 
mv  “Good  morning!”  he  glared 
silently. 


“Have  you  seen  it?  It’s  some 
foolishness  of  Smithers,  depend 
on  it!” 

"What  do  you  mean?” 

“There  is  no  such  place  as  we 
thought  we  saw  last  night!” 

“Oh,  come!” 

“Come  out  and  see  for  your¬ 
self,  man!” 

But  Seeman  entered  then,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  Smithers’ 
butler  announced  that  we  might 
have  early  breakfast  if  we  wish¬ 
ed.  Mr.  Smithers  would,  he  indi¬ 
cated,  sleep  another  hour.  It  was 
not  yet  seven.  We  ate  hurriedly 
and  made  for  the  gunroom, 
which  we  found  as  we  had  left 
it.  We  pulled  the  curtains  apart 
and  opened  the  French  doors 
upon  the  garden.  Before  us  the 
ground  sloped  away  —  rock- 
strewn,  it  is  true,  but  the  rocks 
were  in  ledges  and  beautifully 
planted  with  dwarf  and  curious 
sorts  of  evergreens.  At  the  foot 
of  the  incline  gleamed  the  little 
lake  and  beyond  that  the  pines 
marked  the  edge  of  the  estate. 
I  mentioned  that  I  had  seen 
another  house  beyond  that 
again,  but  we  all  wanted  to  ex¬ 
plore  and  see  for  ourselves.  In 
ten  minutes  we  were  at  the  edge 
of  the  pine  woods  and  looking 
out  on  several  houses  spaced  in 
half-acre  plots  and  a  highway 
beyond! 

What  could  be  the  explana¬ 
tion?  Back  and  forth  we  hunted 
—  Seeman  suggesting  that  there 
might  be  a  large  cave  opening, 
but  we  found  no  possibility  of 


Caverns  Of  Horror 


17 


this  —  lawns  and  shrubbery 
borders  were  neat  and  omnipre 
sent.  Yet  somewhere  here,  the 
three  of  us,  a  few  hours  ago,  had 
been  in  deadly  danger  of  our 
lives! 

Very  much  startled  and  full  of 
wonder,  we  returned  to  the 
house  and  passed  through  the 
gunroom.  Seeman  stopped  sud¬ 
denly  as  we  entered  the  labora¬ 
tory.  We  looked  up  expectantly. 
“No,”  he  announced  to  himself, 
“it  couldn’t  be  that  ...  or  could 
it?” 

“What?” 

“I  was  thinking  .  .  .  I’ve  seen 
some  queer  things  in  the  East 
—  India  and  elsewhere  —  you 
don’t  suppose  Smithers  made  us 
imagine  all  that  last  night?” 

I  laughed  aloud,  but  Seeman’s 
expressionless  stare  seemed  to 
indicate  some  slight  doubt,  at 
least.  As  we  stood  there,  Smith¬ 
ers  came  up  behind  the  colonel 
at  the  doorway. 

“Been  out  looking  around?” 

“Hr-r-rmph!” 

"Want  to  phone  the  police. 
Colonel?”  and  his  smile  seemed 
like  a  match  to  that  worthy’s 
temper.  I  don’t  know  what  he 
didn’t  accuse  Smithers  of  —  dab¬ 
bling  in  magic,  attempting  to 
win  a  bet  by  mesmerism,  fraud, 
poor  sportmanship,  and  much 
more. 

Smither  smiled.  “Have  you 
looked  in  the  ice-box  where  we 
left  the  smelly  bird?” 

Colonel  Marsh  started  visibly 
“By  George!”  and  he  was  gone. 


WE  FOLLOWED  and  found 
him  in  the  gunroom  trying  to 
find  the  right  drawer.  Smithers 
went  forward  and  pulled  out 
the  right  drawer.  Smithers  went 
forward  and  pulled  out  the  pro¬ 
per  compartment  and  opened 
the  air-tight  cover.  Then  we 
held  our  noses  for  dear  life,  for 
the  .stench  was  frightful  and 
Smithers  reached  a  long  knife 
that  hung  near  by  on  the  wall 
and  lifted  something  dark 
brown  and  gruesome  on  the 
point.  It  was  decaying  by  sec¬ 
onds  as  we  stared,  and  we  had 
just  time  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
outlines  before  they  softened. 
Pieces  dripped  off  onto  the  box 
beneath.  “Ugh!”  said  Smithers, 
and  let  it  all  drop  out  of  sight. 
He  closed  the  cover. 

Colonel  Marsh  stared  at  the 
closed  box  as  though  he  had 
seen  a  rabbit  produced  from  a 
magician’s  hat.  Then  he  strode 
over  to  his  rifle  leaning  against 
the  wall,  and  opened  the  breach. 
“It  must  be  true,”  he  grunted 
and  put  the  weapon  back,  to 
stalk  in  dignity  back  to  the  li¬ 
brary. 

“Don’t  suppose  you’ll  tell,” 
drawled  Seeman. 

Smithers  merely  smiled. 

When  we  returned  to  the  li¬ 
brary,  we  found  the  colonel 
writing  in  his  check  bode  on  the 
side  table.  He  tore  out  the 
check,  waved  it  dry  and  hand¬ 
ed  it  to  Smithers  who  accepted 
it  gravely.  “Was  it  really  as  we 
saw  it  last  night?” 


18 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


“Yes,  Colonel.” 

“Those  beasts  still  exist  now?” 

Smithers  nodded,  seemed  a- 
bout  to  speak,  changd  his  mind, 
and  nodded  again. 

I  was  so  curious  by  now  that 
I  thought  I  should  burst.  But 
when  Seeman  drawled  that  he 
thought  he  would  start  back  to 
town,  I  agreed.  It  was  madden¬ 
ing  to  stay  here  and  have  no 
way  of  learning  anything  more. 
Better  to  try  to  forget  the  whole 
affair.  The  colonel  packed  his 
things  at  the  same  time,  and 
when  we  got  to  the  door,  our 
car  had  been  brought  around 
for  us.  We  got  in  silently  and 
Smithers  stood  beside  the  car 
bidding  us  good-by. 

I  started  the  engine  and  wav¬ 
ed  my  hand.  Smithers  leaned  on 
the  window  and  said:  “This  is 
Saturday.  If  you  three  are  at 
the  Stranger  Club  about  this 
time  of  the  morning  next  Satur¬ 
day,  you  might  hear  from  me  a- 
gain.”  And  he  tinned  and  start¬ 
ed  back  to  the  house. 

As  we  rolled  along  through 
Long  Island  traffic,  we  discuss¬ 
ed  the  matter  and  agreed  to  be 
there  —  though  what  possible 
explanation  could  he  have  for 
what  seemed  to  us  an  insoluble 
mystery? 


Ill 

THE  FOLLOWING  Satur¬ 
day  I  was  at  the  Stranger  Club 
a  few  minutes  after  nine  and 


found  Colonel  Marsh  stamping 
about  through  the  empty  rooms 
before  me. 

“Where’s  Seeman?”  he  de¬ 
manded,  and  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  continued  pacing 
up  and  down.  “Not  that  I  really 
suppose  Smithers  will  come  or 
send  any  word  —  the  most 
thoughtless  young  whippersnap- 
per  I  ever  knew!  Here  I  am 
wasting  a  whole  day  waiting  for 
nothing,  and  no  one  here  to  get 
me  a  drink!” 

I  was  full  of  curiosity  myself, 
but  could  not  help  smiling  at  the 
colonel.  Somehow  our  adventure 
of  a  week  ago  seemed  far  away 
and  unreal  and  —  not  very  seri¬ 
ous.  We  rather  looked  forward 
to  an  explanation,  I  believe. 
Great  Heaven!  I  marvel  now 
that  I  could  so  soon  have  forgot¬ 
ten  that  three-foot  mouth  set 
with  a  thousand  teeth!  But  so 
we  are  made.  The  club  stew¬ 
ard  arrived  at  nine-thirty,  and 
the  colonel  blew  him  up  until  a 
drink  was  placed  in  his  hands; 
after  that  he  grew  calmer,  and 
presently  Seeman  arrived.  We 
sat  around  in  chairs  and  fidget¬ 
ed  for  half  an  hour.  The  colonel 
was.  in  fact,  just  rising  to  his  feet 
with  the  announcement  that  he 
would  waste  no  more  time  on 
wild  geese  when  the  front  door 
opened  and  we  heard  footsteps 
approaching.  We  turned  as  one 
and  saw  —  Smithers’  butler.  He 
came  forward  and  handed  Colo¬ 
nel  Marsh  an  envelope  and  re¬ 
tired  to  the  hall  where  he  wait- 


Caverns  Of  Horror 


19 


ed  patiently  while  the  envelope 
was  tom  open  and  a  dozen  type¬ 
written  sheets  spread  out.  We 
three  put  our  heads  together 
and  read.  When  we  were  half 
through,  Seeman  called  to  the 
butler:  “Are  you  waiting  for  us?” 

“The  master  said  you  might 
be  coming  out  to  Paulings.  The 
chauffeur  has  the  big  town  car 
outside,  sir.” 

“Then  let’s  start  now!”  I  cried. 
We  can  finish  this  on  the  way 
out.” 

We  reached  for  hats  and  coats 
and  rushed  out  to  the  limousine 
at  the  curb.  It  started  immedi¬ 
ately  at  a  speed  which  increased 
when  we  had  finished  the  man¬ 
uscript  and  had  commenced  to 
urge  the  chauffeur  to  hurry  up. 
He  half  turned  in  his  seat  to 
look  curiously  back  at  us,  but 
the  butler  beside  him  never 
showed  any  hint  that  he  was  in¬ 
terested  —  sat  stiffly  looking 
straight  ahead. 

This  is  the  letter  Smithers  had 
written,  addressed  to  all  three 
of  us  by  name: 


PERHAPS  YOU  have  not  yet 
guessed  the  explanation  of  your 
adventure  last  week.  It  was  a 
little  cheeky  of  me  to  make  you 
guess,  but  I  have  my  reasons. 
Those  animals,  of  course,  do  not 
roam  Long  Island.  They  are  on 
a  different  level  of  existence  — 
about  two  miles  different.  Now 
have  .you  guessed?  The  gunroom 


is  my  elevator  —  perhaps  you 
noticed  the  floor  shake  as  it 
came  to  rest?  Down  below  the 
earth  is  a  cavern  of  sorts.  Here 
dwell  the  beasts  that  we  shot. 

I  first  came  upon  the  entrance 
making  my  rock  garden  and 
climbed  into  a  mere  crack  in  the 
rock  that  led  underneath  my 
own  cellar,  then  turned  abruptly 
downward.  The  walls  were 
smooth  and  showed  signs  of  an¬ 
cient  heat,  so  that  perhaps  it 
was  once  (thousands  of  years 
ago)  a  vent  for  some  prehistoric 
volcano.  I  blasted  an  entrance 
into  it  directly  from  the  cellar 
and  spent  my  days  and  nights 
exploring  down  its  sheer  depths 
with  ropes  and  ladders  support¬ 
ed  on  iron  bars  driven  into  the 
walls.  Month  after  month  I 
worked  and  hardly  believed  the 
depth  I  reached.  I  came  to  the 
bottom  five  thousand  feet  below 
and  found  the  great  cavern  you 
mistook  for  a  Long  Island  land¬ 
scape  in  the  dark.  This  was  two 
years  ago. 

I  determined  to  keep  my  find 
a  secret  and  have  all  the  fun  of 
exploring  to  myself,  but  a  mile’s 
climb  is  no  fun  at  all  and  I  spent 
a  good  many  thousand  dollars 
arranging  an  electric  lift  and, 
finally,  smoothing  the  walls  and 
building  an  elevator  cage  in  the 
form  of  a  room.  I  do  not  know 
exactly  what  I  intended  —  per¬ 
haps  using  the  cavern,  brilliantly 
lighted,  for  a  grand  ballroom  or 
a  theater.  The  true  meaning  of 
my  discovery  did  not  become 


20 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


apparent  until  all  that  prelimi¬ 
nary  business  was  finished.  I  had 
had  the  workmen  brought*  from 
a  distance  and  discharged  them 
in  the  hope  that  no  one  would 
believe  any  of  them  if  they  did 
talk.  I  also  discharged  all  my 
servants,  finding  the  good  ones 
positions  elsewhere,  and  hired  a 
new  staff  who  know  nothing  of 
the  shaft  or  of  the  secret  use  of 
the  innocent-looking  gunroom, 
into  whioh  I  retired  for  long  per¬ 
iods  and  locked  the  door. 

About  six  months  ago,  I  armed 
myself  with  flashlight  and  lunch 
and  descended  to  make  my  first 
exploring  trip.  I  followed  the 
course  we  took  last  Friday  and 
came  to  the  cliff.  It  is  easy  to 
climb  down  it  and  I  did  so, 
swinging  my  feeble  light  in  awe 
over  that  great  rocky  plain  and 
up  to  the  blackness  of  the  lofty 
cavern  roof.  I  heard  the  hissing 
noise  approach  without  fear,  un¬ 
til  my  light  revealed  the  charg¬ 
ing  monster  at  scarcely  a  hun¬ 
dred  yards  distant!  I  was  total¬ 
ly  unprepared  for  any  danger 
and  dropped  the  light  to  scram¬ 
ble  panic-stricken  up  to  safety. 
Here  I  stopped,  panting,  to  see 
the  still-buming  light  blotted 
out  bv  the  body  of  the  attacker. 
The  flash  was  ground  to  pieces 
and  I  began  to  wonder  how  safe 
I  might  be  even  there  when  a 
second  beast  charged  and  a  fur¬ 
ious  fight  broke  out  below  me 
in  the  absolute  darkness.  I  took 
advantage  of  the  noise  to  make 
good  my  retreat  and  climbed 


the  long  hill  to  where  I  thought 
the  elevator  was.  Only  it  wasn’t. 

I  HAD  two  matches  in  my 
pocket  (no  more,  even  though  I 
am  a  pipe  smoker )  and  I  lit  one 
to  find  myself  in  absolutely  un¬ 
known  territory.  I  imagine  that 
I  lost  my  head  in  the  blackness 
down  there  and  stumbled  aim¬ 
lessly  for  I  know  not  how  long, 
most  of  the  way  downhill  again. 
Presently  I  bumped  into  a  rocky 
wall  and  groped  around  to  find 
myself  in  a  tunnel  about  twenty 
feet  across.  I  knew  this  was  not 
the  right  direction  and  was  a- 
bout  to  turn  and  retrace  my 
blind  steps  when  my  eyes,  enor¬ 
mously  sensitized  by  the  con¬ 
stant  dark,  caught  the  faintest 
hint  of  redness  on  ahead.  Per¬ 
haps  the  most  foolish  thing  I 
could  have  done  was  to  go  for¬ 
ward  to  see  what  the  light  por¬ 
tended  —  but  a  man  lost  in  the 
dark  has  no  choice;  he  must 
follow  the  light  even  if  it  be  a 
dim  ghost  of  a  gleam.  My  light 
led  me  half  a  mile  to  a  cavern 
that  felt  large,  though  I  could 
see  none  of  it.  What  I  saw  was 
a  sea  of  faint  light. 

Close  down  on  the  ground  it 
lay.  I  reached  down  my  hand 
and  touched  something  that 
crumbled  and  a  stench  assailed 
my  nostrils  that  made  me  giddy. 
I  walked  in  light  up  to  the 
ankles,  as  though  it  were  water. 
This,  please,  a  mile  or  more  be¬ 
low  the  surface  of  the  earth  — 
without  benefit  of  rain  or  sun. 


Caverns  Of  Horror 


21 


For  the  light  was  obviously 

Ehosphorescent  and  betokened 
fe  of  some  sort. 

I  was  nauseated  by  the  odor 
and  weary.  A  sudden  fear  sent 
me  scurrying  back  to  make  sure 
I  could  find  the  tunnel  entrance 
again,  for  I  knew  that  I  must 
return.  Further  exploration 
could  wait  until  I  could  equip 
myself  properly.  First  I  must 
find  the  elevator  cage.  I  groped 
my  way  back  along  the  tunnel 
and  never  really  knew  when  I 
came  out  of  it  into  the  inner 
cave.  But  the  ground  began  ris¬ 
ing  and  felt  boulder-strewn  and 
I  hoped  that  this  fact  might 
guide  me.  It  did,  after  a  fashion, 
and  an  hour  later  when  I  had 
despaired  of  ever  succeeding.  I 
lit  my  second  and  last  match 
and  saw  my  objective  twenty 
feet  away  in  the  half-lit  gloom. 
I  entered  and  pulled  the  ascend¬ 
ing  lever  and  spent  an  impatient 
half-hour  rising  to  my  home  a- 
bove.  I  had  been  down  seven 
hours  by  my  watch. 

I  APOLOGIZE  for  this  long 
history,  but  it  is  essential  to  an 
explanation  of  what  I  now  in¬ 
tend  doing.  I  made  a  second 
trip  down  a  week  later  with  a 
powerful  flashlight  and  a  good 
rifle.  I  determined  to  explore 
only  the  rocky  slope  at  the  sum¬ 
mit  of  which  the  elevator  shaft 
rested.  I  took  a  compass  with 
me  and  paper  and  sketched  a 
map  which  I  give  here. 

To  the  north,  as  you  see,  the 


slope  ends  in  the  low  cliff  and 
beyond  that  a  huge  area  inhab¬ 
ited  by  beasts  too  dangerous  for 
me  to  approach  alone.  On  the 
east  I  found  the  entrance  to  the 
long  tunnel  that  leads  to  the 
cave  of  light.  But  before  exam¬ 
ining  in  that  direction,  I  made 
the  circuit  of  the  south  and  west 
and  found  it  all  walled  in  harm¬ 
lessly  except  for  one  huge  gap 
of  a  hundred  yards  where  the 
rock  steeply  fell  away  into  the 
water  of  a  large  underground 
lake.  It  was  more  than  half  a 
mile  across,  I  judged,  or  I  should 
have  seen  the  far  side  in  the  un¬ 
real  beam  of  my  flashlight  It 
might  be  a  hundred  miles  for  all 
I  could  tell,  for  I  have  not  yet 
gotten  around  to  exploring  its 
gloomy  surface  in  a  boat.  This 
preliminary  work  occupied  sev¬ 
eral  hours.  When  I  got  back  to 
the  surface,  I  felt  more  comfort¬ 
able  about  further  work,  for  the 
beasts  evidently  could  not  at- 


22 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


tack  me  unless  I  climbed  down 
the  natural  barrier  that  hemmed 
them  in.  Fortunately,  I  did  not 
tempt  them,  for  you  will  remem¬ 
ber  that  the  one  we  shot  almost 
reached  the  top  of  the  cliff  in 
his  charge. 

I  determined  to  solve  the  mys¬ 
tery  of  the  phosphorescence 
and  made  a  trip  into  that  tunnel- 
entered  place  for  specimens.  I 
got  them,  in  spite  of  the  smell, 
and  brought  them  up  for  exam¬ 
ination  in  the  sunlight.  They 
were  more  like  mushrooms  than 
anything  I  knew  —  the  round 
puffball  kind  —  but  in  the  light 
of  day,  they  quickly  decayed 
and  lost  shape  and  form  under 
my  eyes.  In  a  few  minutes,  they 
were  putrescent,  smelled  to  high 
heaven  and  dripped  messily.  I 
had  the  mess  saved  in  a  bowl 
over  which  I  had  been  holding 
the  things,  and  this  bowlful  I 
had  analyzed.  Then  on  another 
expedition,  I  saw  one  of  the  lu¬ 
minous  bats  and  shot  it  and 
brought  that  up  to  examine.  You 
know  what  happened  to  it,  for 
you  saw  the  one  Colonel  Marsh 
shot  and  how  it  looked  the  next 
morning.  I  had  that  analyzed 
too. 

THE  RESULTS  weren’t  any¬ 
thing  definite,  but  indicated 
something  to  me  and  I  became 
interested  in  subterranean  life 
generally.  I  got  a  good  many 
books  on  the  blind  newts  and 
fishes  found  in  famous  caverns 
the  world  over  —  managed  to 


get  a  few  specimens  as  well,  and 
I  had  them  analyzed  to  compare 
with  my  own  findings.  Here’s 
my  theory,  for  what  it’s  worth. 
Up  to  my  discovery,  all  the  un¬ 
derground  life  discovered  has 
been  merely  surface  types  a- 
dapted  to  darkness;  even  the 
fish  dredged  up  from  the  lowest 
depths  of  the  sea  have  been 
considered  merely  adaptations 
of  surface  life.  Now  suppose  that 
life  had  been  trapped  in  caves 
far  beneath  the  earth  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  years  ago.  Sup¬ 
pose  that  the  pressure  rose  grad¬ 
ually  and  the  caverns  continued 
sinking  and  impurities  were  in 
the  underground  atmosphere  — 
sulphur  for  instance  —  and  over 
long  periods  of  time  life  chang¬ 
ed  to  meet  these  conditions  and 
survived  in  a  new  form.  Exits 
might  occasionally  appear  lead¬ 
ing  up  to  the  surface,  and  the 
emerging  blind  things  would 
fall  easy  prey  to  the  surface 
camivorse,  so  that  all  who 
emerged,  died.  Some  types 
would  be  incapable  of  emerg¬ 
ing  because  the  rays  of  the  sun 
would  be  painful  and  drive 
them  back.  These  would  breed 
and  survive  below. 

Legendary  history  is  full  of 
such  hints.  Dragons  were  sup¬ 
posed  to  dwell  beneath  the 
ground  and  to  emerge  from 
caverns  breathing  fire.  (Does 
this  possibly  mean  that  dragons 
were  adapted  to  an  atmosphere 
where  oxygen  was  lacking,  its 
place  being  taken  perhaps  by 


Caverns 

sulphur,  and  that  upon  coming 
into  the  upper  air  their  breath 
burned?)  Moreover,  if  legend 
be  credited,  the  Greeks  believed 
Hades  a  place  where  men  ate 
dust  in  dim  darkness  and  hell¬ 
hounds  with  huge  jaws  guarded 
the  entrance.  It  sticks  in  my  fan¬ 
cy  that  we  may  have  shot  a 
regular  classic  hell-hound  last 
week. 

Well,  then,  how  about  devils? 
Might  they  really  exist  down 
below?  Cloven  hoofs,  leathery 
hides,  horned  heads  and  forked 
tails  —  all  complete?  Frankly,  I 
should  not  be  surprised.  More¬ 
over  I  shall  find  out,  if  I  live.  A 
month  ago  I  made  an  expedi¬ 
tion  to  the  cave  of  light  and 
walked  a  good  five  miles  by 
compass  over  its  vegetable-dusty 
floor.  I  came  to  a  canyon  in  the 
form  of  a  gap  in  the  floor  half 
a  mile  across  and  almost  that 
in  depth.  Peering  over,  I  saw, 
far  below,  half  a  dozen  pits  of 
fire  glowing  —  probably  volcan¬ 
ic.  The  air  down  there  is  steamy 
and  the  light  only  a  dull  redness. 
I  cannot  be  sure,  but  I  am  al¬ 
most  certain  that  I  saw  figures 
moving  about  the  fires.  I  had  a 
great  coil  of  rope  with  me  and 
ithe  sides  of  the  canyon  were 
rough  enough  at  one  spot  to  at¬ 
tempt  the  descent.  I  did  so, 
and  half  way  down,  the  steamy 
air  bellied  up  around  me  and  I 
nearly  choked,  for  it  smells  of 
“fire  and  brimstone,”  as  the  an¬ 
cients  put  it.  I  clung,  gasping, 
to  the  rock  until  the  steam 


Horror  23 

swirled  free  so  that  I  could 
climb  up  again. 

IT  WAS  THEN  that  I  deter¬ 
mined  to  see  whether  I  could 
obtain  discreet  assistance.  You 
know  how  I  inveigled  you  to 
my  place  and  together  we 
fought  the  hell-hounds.  So 
poorly  did  the  experiment  work 
that  I  can  see  no  advantage  in 
having  rifles  back  of  me  when 
I  explore.  Why  risk  four  lives 
instead  of  merely  my  own?  By 
the  time  you  read  this,  I  shall 
be  down  there  solving  die  mys- 
try  of  the  fiery  canyon.  If  its 
dangers  are  insurmountable,  I 
shall  gladly  have  your  help  in 
further  studying  and  examining 
my  underground  kingdom  —  a- 
voiding  altogether  the  cave  of 
the  beasts. 

I  have  made  these  prepara¬ 
tions:  a  strong  and  light  ladder 
of  silk  rope  and  a  diver’s  suit 
and  helmet  of  rubber  —  the 
land  with  an  oxygen  tank  strap¬ 
ped  on  the  back.  There  is  a  tel¬ 
ephone  in  the  helmet  and  two 
fine  copper  'wires  lead  back  to 
the  elevator  cage  behind  me  — 
more  to  enable  me  to  find  my 
way  back  at  a  run  if  the  need 
should  arise  than  for  any  ne¬ 
cessity  to  be  in  communication. 
But  I  shall  be  able  to  communi¬ 
cate  with  you,  if  you  wish, 
from  the  telephone  hidden  be¬ 
hind  the  encyclopedia  in  the 
library  in  my  house.  So,  you 
see,  you  need  not  miss  the  fun 
even  if  I  decline  to  permit  you 


24 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


to  share  the  risk.  I  have  made 
arrangements  so  that  you  can 
get  out  here  if  you  want ’to  a- 
bout  the  time  I  start  the  descent 
from  the  floor  of  the  cave  of 
light  down  into  the  canyon. 

There  may  be  devils  down 
there  —  or  there  may  be  drag¬ 
ons  —  or  merely  subterranean 
fire.  If  there  are  dragons,  how 
about  our  bet.  Colonel?  Twice 
won? 


WE  FINISHED  this  amaz¬ 
ing  manuscript  as  the  big  car 
trundled  across  the  57th  Street 
bridge.  “Damn’  fool!”  snapped 
the  colonel,  with  plain  envy  and 
admiration  written  all  over  his 
face.  It  was  about  then  that  we 
persuaded  the  chauffeur  to  real¬ 
ly  step  on  things  and  get  us 
out  to  Paulings  as  soon  as  he 
could.  Why  we  weren’t  arrest¬ 
ed  a  dozen  times,  I  cannot  now 
imagine. 

IV 

WE  THRUST  our  way  past 
the  scandalized  footman  at 
Smithers’  house.  He  half  turned 
after  us  as  if  to  fight  for  the 
decencies,  when  the  butler 
stalked  up  in  dignity  after  us 
and  made  all  right  again.  We 
burst  headlong  into  the  library, 
oblivious  to  all  else,  and  threw 
the  volumes  of  encyclopedia  un¬ 
ceremoniously  onto  the  floor. 
There  was  a  telephone  with  its 


receiver  replaced  by  a  small 
metal  piece  and  connected  by 
wire  to  a  box  type  loudspeaker. 
Seeman  leaned  over  and  called 
“Smithers!”  Then  Colonel  Marsh 
pushed  him  impatiently  aside. 
^Smithers!  You  young  idiot!  Can 
you  hear  us?”  ne  yelled. 

The  loudspeaker  chuckled. 
Smithers’  voice  came  quietly 
from  the  box.  “You  got  up  there 
pretty  quick.  I’m  just  adjusting 
the  diving  outfit  now.  If  you’d 
called  five  minutes  ago,  you 
would  have  had  to  wait  until 
I  put  this  helmet  on  to  get  an 
answer.” 

“We  want  to  come  down  and 
stand  by  while  you  climb  into 
that  canyon,”  said  I. 

The  colonel  burst  out,  “We 
are  coming  down,  you  hear?” 

Another  chuckle  from  tile  box. 
“Afraid  that  won’t  be  possible. 
The  elevator  is  pretty  well  con¬ 
cealed.  I  sent  it  up  again,  it’s 
true  —  but  to  prevent  any  one 
coming  down  to  this  place  rath¬ 
er  than  to  permit  them  to  do 
so.” 

“We’ll  smash  the  floor  of  the 
gunroom  and  climb  down  the 
ropes!” 

‘Two  inches  of  steel  and  six 
inches  of  composition  in  that 
floor,  Colonel.  You’d  need  dyna¬ 
mite.  Besides,  what  could  you 
do?  I’ve  just  fastened  the  silk 
ladder  and  thrown  the  tail  of 
it  over.  Now  I  shall  start  climb¬ 
ing  down.  If  you  three  were 
waiting  for  me  here,  you  could¬ 
n’t  help  me  when  I  get  down 


Caverns  Of  Horror 


25 


below  there.  While  I  am  climb¬ 
ing,  I  am  safe  from  the  hell¬ 
hounds,  but  if  one  came  into  the 
cave  of  light  while  you  were 
here,  he  would  attack  you.  You 
can’t  help  me  but  you  can  harm 
yourselves.” 

“Damn  it  all!”  shouted  die 
colonel.  “Do  you  suppose  we  are 
afraid  to  risk  ourselves?  We’re 
going  to  get  down  in  spite  of 
your  And  he  rushed  away  to 
the  gunroom  with  Seeman  and 
myself  following.  We  spent  ten 
useless  minutes  searching  eveiy 
drawer  and  cupboard  for  hia- 
den  mechanism,  but  were  com¬ 
pelled  to  give  up  the  search.  The 
colonel  ruined  a  beautiful  shot¬ 
gun  by  using  its  barrel  as  a 
crowbar  and  pounding  on  the 
floor  of  the  room  with  it.  The 
floor  gave  off  a  very  solid¬ 
sounding  sort  of  thud  and  I  left 
to  go  back  to  the  telephone  in 
the  library. 

“Where  are  you  now,  Smith- 
ers?”  I  asked. 

.  .  Ugh  .  .  .  just  a  .  .  .  ugh 
.  .  .  there!  Pretty  near  halfway 
down.”  There  were  sounds  of 
heavy  breathing.  “Did  you  all 
go  away,  or  what  happened?” 

I  told  him  of  our  attempt  to 
find  the  hidden  elevator  appa¬ 
ratus.  He  laughed.  “Foolish! 
You’d  never  find  that!  Besides, 
I  set  the  controls  from  below 
when  I  sent  the  car  back  up  to 
the  surface.  You'd  better  stay 
by  die  telephone  and  enjoy  this 
adventure  second-hand,  instead 
of  wasting  your  time.” 


SEEMAN  AND  Colonel 
Marsh  entered  just  then  and 
heard  the  last  half  of  Smithers’ 
remarks  sheepishly  enough. 

“Hard  work  climbing  —  even 
on  a  ladder  —  and  the  dam 
thing  swings  a  bit  —  and  this 
diving  suit  is  the  most  uncom¬ 
fortable  thing  I  ever  wore  — 
have  to  rest— every  few  minutes 
.  .  .’’and  the  loud-speaker  panted. 

It  took  Smithers  half  an  hour 
to  reach  the  bottom  of  that  bur¬ 
ied  canyon.  All  through  the 
climb,  we  exchanged  the  mad¬ 
dest  kind  of  conversation  —  par¬ 
ticularly  during  the  brief  and 
frequent  periods  he  found  it  ne¬ 
cessary  to  rest. 

“The  steam  is  swirling  around 
my  feet,”  he  announced  once. 
“It  looks  yellowish  right  now 
and  the  fires  below  are  orange 
and  the  rock  beside  me  is  a 
smooth,  shiny  black  —  though 
there’s  so  little  light  that  the 
oolors  are  more  imagined  than 
seen,  except  where  the  fires  show 
through.  I  have  my  flashlight 
and  an  automatic,  but  somehow 
these  don’t  seem  the  proper 
weapons  for  this  world  down 
here.” 

Then  another  time,  “It’s  all 
black  and  cloudy  around  me 
now  —  I  can  make  out  the  fires 
though,  so  I  suppose  I  could 
see  through  the  mist  fairly  well 
if  there  were  any  light.  I  don’t 
dare  turn  on  the  flash.  You 
know,  if  I  do  find  life  down 
here,  it  will  be  a  queer  sort  of 
life!  I  suppose  strong  sunlight 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


would  kill  it  in  an  instant  .  .  . 
yet  there’s  another  idea.  Millions 
of  years  from  now  when  the  sun 
cools  and  the  air  on  earth  freez¬ 
es  in  its  red  rays,  these  creatures 
down  here  —  if  they  exist  —  may 
come  out  onto  the  surface  and 
inherit  the  earth.” 

Vague  ideas  flashed  through 
my  mind  as  he  spoke:  Powers 
of  Darkness  imprisoned  down  in 
the  earth  by  the  Face  of  Right¬ 
eousness,  evil  things  that  cannot 
bear  the  light  of  day.  “Smith- 
ers,”  I  said.  “They  could  come 
out  now  during  the  night!” 

“Perhaps  they  do,”  he  grunt¬ 
ed.  “This  damned  telephone 
string  is  a  nuisance!” 

“Don’t  you  dare  cut  it!”  thun¬ 
dered  the  colonel. 

“Shan’t,  don’t  worry!  I  may 
need  it  to  find  my  way  back  to 
the  hanging  ladder.” 

"What  do  you  mean  by  say¬ 
ing  perhaps  they  do’?”  I  persist- 

“Devils,  dragons,  will-o’-the- 
wisps,  gnomes,  elves  —  they  are 
all  night-going  apparitions,  are¬ 
n’t  they?  Maybe  they  used  to 
sneak  out  of  caves  at  night  and 
return  at  dawn.  Maybe  they 
never  existed.  I  don’t  know!  .  .  . 
By  Jove!  No  .  .  .  yes!  I’m  at  the 
bottom!” 

There  was  a  period  of  silence. 
We  could  hear  Smithers’  breath¬ 
ing  as  though  we  had  stood  be¬ 
side  him.  For  ourselves,  we 
scarcely  breathed  at  all.  “Can’t 
see  the  fires  from  down  here 
.  .  .  mighty  dark  .  .  .  God!  What 


was  that?  ...  I  thought  I  felt 
some  little  thing  scuttle  off 
through  the  darkness  .  .  .  it’s  dis¬ 
turbing  not  to  be  able  to  see  or 
hear  anything  .  . 

THE  VOICE  trailed  off  and 
there  was  another  moment  of 
silence.  I  licked  my  lips  dryly. 
We  could  hear  the  thud  of  slow 
feet  and  an  occasional  stumble 
and  knew  that  Smithers  was 
walking. 

“I  see  a  faint  glow  of  red  a- 
gainst  the  blackness,”  his  voice 
whispered.  ‘1  suppose  that’s 
one  of  the  fire  pits  .  .  .  yes,  it  is, 
I  can  see  it  better  now  .  .  .  but 
there  doesn’t  seem  to  be  any 
animals  around  it  .  .  .” 

Another  pause.  “Well,  the 
coast’s  clear  at  this  pit,  anyway. 
Perhaps  I  only  imagined  that  I 
saw  things  down  here  .  .  .  but  I 
was  pretty  sure  I  di4  .  .  .  Good 
Heavens  .  .  .” 

The  voice  stopped.  “Speak  up, 
man!  What  is  it?”  we  shouted  in 
unison. 

“Hmm!  I  suppose  it’s  lava. 
The  hole’s  twenty  feet  across 
and  about  a  hundred  yards 
deep,  and  the  fiery  stuff  down 
at  the  bottom  keeps  moving 
slightly  up  and  down  —  like  a 
pulse  beating  in  tom  flesh. 
Rather  giddy  thing  to  look  down 
into  .  .  .”  Then  we  heard  the 
thump  and  shuffle  of  his  further 
progress. 

“Seems  to  be  no  life  here  at 
all.  I’m  going  to  chance  the 
flashlight  .  .  .  Lord,  but  it’s  a 


Caverns  Of  Horror 


27 


big  place!  And  not  a  thing  .  .  .” 
We  heard  the  quick  indrawn 
breath  that  held  a  second.  “Dear 
God!”  and  the  thump ,  thump, 
thump  and  the  'heavy  panting 
breaths. 

I  leaned  over  to  the  instru¬ 
ment.  “What  is  it  Smithers?”  I 
whispered  anxiously.  There  was 
ho  answer  but  the  sounds  of  run¬ 
ning.  Then,  “The  place  is  full  of 
them  .  .  .  thousands  .  .  .  such 
horrible  things  .  .  .  like  a  night¬ 
mare  .  .  .  thank  the  Lord  I 
thought  of  leaving  this  string 
trail  to  follow  .  .  .  they  are  after 
me  .  .  .”  He  was  evidently  talk¬ 
ing  to  himself  more  than  to  us 
and  we  did  not  dare  speak  now. 
“There  it  is  .  .  .  thank  God  .  .  . 
about  time,  too  .  .  .  ahh!”  Then 
we  heard  sounds  of  very  heavy 
breathing  which  we  took  to 
mean  he  had  found  the  ladder 
and  was  ascending  —  then  a 
pause  while  we  supposed  he  re¬ 
gained  his  breath. 

“That  was  a  close  thing 
(pant)  but  I’m  twenty  feet  up 
now  (pant)  and  .  .  .  they’ve 
come  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder 
but  don’t  dare  climb  it  (pant). 
I  can  see  them  plainly  in  the 
light  of  the  flash  down  there. 
You  never  saw  such  things  .  .  . 
like  brown  leather  .  .  .” 

WE  HEARD  the  sharp  intake 
of  breath  and  then  slow  and  hor¬ 
rified,  “This  ladder  is  moving! 
There’s  something  above  me!” 
Our  nerves  were  taut  to  the 
breaking  point,  and  the  colonel 


leaned  forward  with  bulging 
eyes.  “Shoot  your  way  upr  he 
cried. 

There  was  on  the  instant  the 
sound  of  a  shot  and  another  and 
another  in  quick  succession  till 
we  counted  ten.  Then  Smithers 
cried  out  unintelligibly  and  we 
heard  sounds  of  struggle  and 
blows  struck,  evidently  on  the 
metal  diving  helmet,  then  a 
scream,  long  drawn  out  and 
blood-chilling,  ending  in  a  crash 
and  silence  .  .  . 

“My  God!  I  can’t  stand  this! 
He’s  been  knocked  off  the  lad¬ 
der  and  probably  killed,”  cried 
the  colonel.  He  paced  the  floor 
clasping  and  unclasping  his  fin¬ 
gers. 

But  Smithers  had  not  been 
killed  —  would  to  God  he  had! 
A  groan  came  from  the  loud¬ 
speaker  and  we  rushed  to  it. 
“Smithers,  old  man,  can  you 
hear  us?” 

Another  groan.  “I’m  done  for,” 
he  said  weakly.  “I  think  my  back 
is  broken,  for  I  can’t  seem  to 
move  either  leg  .  .  .  What  a 
fool  I  was  not  to  let  you  come 
down  with  me!  .  .  .  The  flash¬ 
light  didn’t  break;  it’s  just  out 
of  my  reach  and  lights  up  every-  ■ 
thing  on  my  right  side  .  .  .  that’s 
where  they  are  .  .  .  they’re  com¬ 
ing!  Colonel  Marsh!  Colonel 
Marsh!  Turn  off  the  speaker  .  .  . 
ahh!  —  please  turn  it  off!  You 
mustn’t  hear  —  no  one  must  hear 
what  .  .  .  dear  God  in  Heaven 
.  .  .  this  isn’t  happening  to  me; 
it’s  a  nightmare!  It  must  be!  Just 


28 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


a  dream  and  I’ll  close  my  eyes 
and  not  see  those  teeth  .  .  .  when 
I  wake  up,  I’ll  laugh  at  it  all .  . 

Then  we  heard  quick  breath¬ 
ing  and  .  .  .  the  next  five  min¬ 
utes  were  unendurable.  I  cannot 
bear  to  put  it  on  paper.  Colonel 
Marsh  bowd  his  head  so  that  his 
ears  were  cupped  by  the  palms’ 
of  his  hands  and  he  kept  mutter¬ 
ing  and  moaning  to  himself. 
Seeman  stood  with  hands  be¬ 
hind  his  back  and  his  yellow 
parchment-like  skin  seemed  to 
tighten  on  his  cheek  bones,  but 
his  face  was  as  meek  and  ex¬ 
pressionless  as  ever.  When  he 
reached  forward  with  a  horrible 
oath  and  ripped  the  instrument 
from  the  wall  to  smash  it  on  the 
floor,  his  action  seemed  incon¬ 
gruously  violent.  In  the  sudden 
silence,  I  looked  about  the  room 
aimlessly,  trying  desperately  not 
to  be  ill  and  noticed  how  peace¬ 
fully  the  sunlight  rested  on  the 
table  beneath  the  window  — 
healing,  sane  sunlight  .  .  . 

WE  MADE  fools  of  ourselves 
then.  We  tried  to  tear  up  the 
steel-braced  floor  of  the  gun 
room  and  the  butler  objected. 
His  master,  he  informed  us,  had 
left  word  that  we  were  to  be 
brought  here  —  but  he  had  no 
authority  to  permit  us  to  tear 
the  house  apart.  We  tried  to  ex- 
lain  what  had  happened  or  was 
appening  to  poor  Smithers,  but 
he  stared  stiffly  and  incredu¬ 
lously  and  stalked  off  to  phone 
the  police. 


That  sobered  us,  but  we 
agreed  that  the  matter  would 
have  to  be  turned  over  to  them 
anyway.  We  awaited  their  arriv¬ 
al  in  morose  silence.  We  needed 
every  drop  of  the  stiff  brandies 
we  took  while  waiting,  for  our 
nerves  were  frayed  to  the  break¬ 
ing  point.  But  when  the  two 
rather  stupid  patrolmen  arrived 
they  listened  with  growing  sus¬ 
picion  to  our  frantic  arguments. 

Finally  one  leaned  close  to  the 
colonel  and  sniffed  reminiscent¬ 
ly- 

“Hmm!”  he  said  with  raised 
eyebrows.  “So  that’s  it,  is  it! 
Now  do  you  three  want  to  leave 
the  house  quietly  and  go  to  your 
homes,  or  would  you  prefer  to 
make  trouble  and  arrive  at  the 
police  station?  You  should  be 
ashamed  of  yourselves!” 

“Blast  your  impudence!” 
snorted  Colonel  Marsh,  “Smith¬ 
ers  is  down  below  the  ground 
fighting  leathery  beasts  this  in¬ 
stant  ...  I  tell  you,  he  told  us 
so  himself!” 

That,  you  see,  was  pretty 
hopeless  from  then  on.  Even  the 
colonel  saw  the  point  and  stop¬ 
ped  talking,  to  stand  biting  ms 
lower  lip  with  his  teeth  and  tap¬ 
ping  savagely  with  his  foot. 

“Let’s  go,”  said  Seeman  short¬ 
ly- 

WE  MADE  inquiries  when 
we  got  back  to  the  city  —  still 
onlv  the  afternoon  of  that  in¬ 
credible  day  —  and  learned 


Caverns 

something  of  poor  Smithers’  af¬ 
fairs.  He  had  a  cousin,  it 
seemed,  who  would  inherit  the 
estate.  The  cousin  lived  in  Eng¬ 
land.  I  called  up  a  lawyer  I  knew 
and  put  certain  guarded  ques¬ 
tions  to  him.  It  appeared  that 
nothing  could  be  done  by  any 
one  until  at  least  seven  years  af¬ 
ter  Smithers  vanished.  Until 
then  he  would  be  presumed  still 
alive.  After  that,  we  agreed 
wearily,  the  cousin  might  be  ap¬ 
proached  with  a  view  to  buying 
the  estate  (Colonel  Marsh  is 
wealthy)  and  so  there  does  re¬ 
main  a  dim  possibility  of  our 


Horror  29 

some  day  learning  more  about 
those  caverns  of  horror. 

Seeman  and  I  tried  hard  to 
get  drunk  that  night,  but  we 
couldn’t  do  it.  We  consumed  un¬ 
believable  quantities  of  hard  li¬ 
quor  in  my  apartment  and  then 
went  around  to  the  Stranger 
Club  and  drank  there.  The  hor¬ 
ror  of  those  last  few  minutes  re¬ 
mained  with  me  for  three  days 
and  I  still  do  not  care  to  think 
about  it  more  than  I  can  help. 
Only  last  night  I  dreamed  about 
it  again  —  that  high-pitched  un¬ 
natural  voice  screaming  .  .  . 
screaming  .  .  .  screaming  .  .  . 


The  five  tales  from  the  Stranger  Club  appeared  in 
Wonder  Stories  magazine,  as  follows:  The  Call  of  the 
Mech-Men,  November  1933;  Caverns  of  Horror,  March 
1934;  Voice  of  Atlantis,  July  1934;  The  Moth  Message, 
December  1934;  and  Seeds  From  Space,  June  1935. 

Of  the  lot,  only  Caverns  of  Horror  is  a  straight  horror 
tale.  Call  of  the  Mech-Men  deals  with  a  secret  race  of 
intelligent  machines;  and  Seeds  From  Space  with  vege¬ 
table  entities  growing  from  spores  out  of  the  void.  The 


<prodiqy 

If  Waft  JfieULr 


Most  of  the  troubles  and  tragedies  of  this  world  derive  from  the  be¬ 
havior  of  emotional  infants  who  are  adults  chronologically.  They  are 
really  no  more  mature  than  the  narrator  of  this  story  and  there  is 
nothing  funny  about  them.  The  child  genius,  however,  can  be  quite 
frightening  —  and  yet,  amusing. 


IT  WAS  A  work  of  art,  a  gen¬ 
uine  work  of  art.  I’m  definitely 
a  genius  and  I  can  prove  it. 

I  suppose  all  this  delightful 
nonsense  smarted  when  I  was 
about  seven  months  old.  My 
Mother,  having  boned  up  on 
Spock,  was  holding  me  close 
and  dispensing  part  of  the  daily 
ration  of  love  and  affection.  You 
know  —  to  make  me  feel  want¬ 
ed,  secure,  and  all  that  jazz. 

Of  course  I  gurgled  and 
smiled  appropriately. 

“Say  Mama,”  she  cooed.  “Ma- 
aa  Maaa.” 


In  a  fit  of  inspiration  I  low¬ 
ered  my  voice  the  required  num¬ 
ber  of  decibels  and  said,  “Go  to 
Hell.” 

The  resultant  chaos  was  abso¬ 
lutely  delicious.  She  thought  my 
Father  had  said  it  and  no 
amount  of  pleading  on  his  part 
could  convince  her  he  was  inno¬ 
cent  of  the  heinous  crime,  as 
she  called  it.  The  argument  last¬ 
ed  into  the  early  morning  hours 
and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
I  fell  asleep. 

It  didn’t  take  me  long  to  real¬ 
ize  I  could  manipulate  tnem  like 


30 


puppets,  and  as  I  grew  older,  I 
began  to  hate  my  Mother  with 
a  vengeance.  She  was  a  bitch 
from  the  word  go. 

Mother  was  all  woman  and 
she  had  the  body  to  prove  it. 
Despite  the  fact  she  treated  my 
Father  abominably,  he  still  trem¬ 
bled  when  he  was  close  to  her 
or  saw  her  traipse  around  nude, 
which  she  did  at  the  slightest 
provocation. 

Often,  during  the  night.  I 
would  hear  him  plead  with  her 
to  make  love.  She  would  lead 
him  on  interminable,  and,  when 
he  was  almost  at  the  breaking 
point,  allow  him  to  have  her. 
Then  she  would  pour  on  the  ar¬ 
dor  and  have  it  so  quickly  done 
that  my  Father  would  be  left 
completely  befuddled  and  quite 
unsatisfied.  You  could  almost 
hear  her  gloat  in  the  darkness 
while  my  father  screamed  silent¬ 
ly,  and  my  hate  grew  and  grew. 

There  were  other  little  nice¬ 
ties  about  her  that  were  enor¬ 
mously  distasteful.  As  I  grew 
older,  she  gradually  assumed 
management  of  the  household 
money,  spending  most  of  it  on 
herself  and  little  me,  leaving  a 
comparative  pittance  for  Father. 

And  my  distaste  for  him  grew 
also.  Not  only  because  he  allow¬ 
ed  her  to  dominate  him,  but  for 
his  complete  lack  of  struggle. 
She  had  only  to  use  a  feather  to 
push  him  into  her  hellhole  of 
sick  conformity,  replete  with 
dinners  for  the  boss  and  his  wife, 
the  fashionable  club  bit,  and  die 


useless  round  of  cocktail  parties 
with  vapid  women  and  bollow 
men  whose  only  chance  for  real 
contentment  was  the  grave. 

The  women  adored  him,  the 
men  envied  him,  and  my  Mother 
smiled  smugly.  Why  shouldn’t 
they?  He  had  cocktailed  his  boss 
into  a  vice  presidency,  he  had 
a  gorgeous,  sexy  wife,  a  blue 
ribbon  child,  he  could  quote  any 
batting  average  for  the  last 
twenty  years.  Actually  he  de¬ 
spised  baseball,  but  it  was 
another  way  of  proving  he  was 
a  man.  Ah,  yes,  he  was  a  success. 

Well,  as  you  can  readily  see, 
things  finally  approached  the 
breaking  point.  The  only  thing  I 
cared  for  were  my  pets  and 
Aunt  Martha,  who  was  so  simple 
and  unwise  I  couldn’t  help  but 
like  her. 

WHICH  BRINGS  me  to  my 
work  of  art.  It  took  planning 
and  patience  and  all  the  cunning 
I  could  muster.  It  was  little  old 
me  who  implanted  in  their  ade¬ 
quate  brains  the  idea  of  living 
in  the  country,  partly  because  I 
insisted  on  having  a  pony,  which 
I  rode  impeccably,  and  because 
I  gently  persuaded  the  doctor  to 
suggest  that  the  country  air 
would  be  good  for  my  health. 

Actually,  I’m  not  as  puny  as 
I  pretend  to  be.  But,  sick  chil¬ 
dren  are  less  prone  to  discipline 
and  get  more  presents,  and  so  I 
made  myself  sick  quite  often, 
whenever  I  wanted  something 
to  go  my  way. 


31 


32 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


Besides,  my  work  of  art  had 
to  be  accomplished  with  no  dne 
around.  Ana  so,  while  pretend¬ 
ing  to  look  at  the  pretty  pictures 
in  the  encyclopedia,  I  boned  up 
on  poisons.  You’d  be  surprised 
at  die  wonderful  plants  that 
grow  in  a  country  yard.  Many 
of  them  have  gorgeous  flowers, 
or  pleasant  foliage,  but  it  was 
so  rewarding  to  discover  how 
delightfully  deadly  some  of 
them  were,  like  the  oleander 
bush  for  instance,  and  mush¬ 
rooms.  And  the  pantry  contained 
ever  so  many  goodies  like  rat 
poison  with  an  arsenical  com¬ 
pound,  and  DDT,  and  lye. 

It  wasn’t  very  difficult  to 
blank  out  Mother  and  cook  up  a 
nice  little  deadly  brew  with  all 
those  lovely  ingredients  on 
hand. 

I  waited  for  the  proper  day. 
Father  was  away  on  one  of  his 
numerous  business  trips.  His 
business  was  of  the  monkey  type 
with  another  woman.  I  wished 
him  well.  Through  various  bits 
of  chicanery,  I  had  forced  my 
Mother  to  fire  the  maid,  so  we 
were  alone.  That  lovely  night 
when  I  was  having  my  second 
Shirley  Temple,  I  managed  to 
pour  a  portion  of  my  culinary 
artistry  into  her  fourth  martini. 
She  died  almost  instantly.  Tljis 
made  me  mad  as  hell  as  I  want¬ 
ed  to  see  her  suffer  a  bit. 

I  put  her  in  the  deep  freeze, 
and  if  you  think  that  was  easy, 
you’re  nuts.  I  had  to  rig  up  a 
system  of  levers  and  pulleys  and 


concentrate  all  my  powers  to  do 
it.  Then  I  let  her  fall  too  fast. 
Her  body  messed  up  all  the  neat 
rows  of  frozen  foods  and  I  had 
to  straighten  them  all  out.  That 
so  annoyed  me  I  went  into  the 
living  room  and  had  a  real  cock¬ 
tail.  . 

The  next  few  days  were  quite 
wonderful.  I  ate  what  I  wanted, 
when  I  wanted.  I  walked  a  cou¬ 
ple  of  miles  through  the  woods 
to  the  river.  I  swam  underwater 
to  the  other  side  so  no  one  would 
see  me  and  started  a  few  fires  in 
the  forest  just  for  kicks.  At  home 
I  could  go  naked  and  float 
around  the  house  without  worry¬ 
ing  about  anyone  seeing  me. 

I  also  had  time  to  perfect  my 
witches’  brew  so  that  it  wasn’t 
quite  so  potent,  for  I  still  had 
Father  to  experiment  with. 

Good  thing,  too,  as  he  ruined 
my  fun  by  returning  a  day  early. 
I  told  him  Mother  was  sleeping, 
slipped  it  in  his  coffee,  then 
asked  for  some  ice  cream.  It 
couldn’t  have  been  better.  The 
timing  was  perfect.  He  lifted 
the  lid  of  the  freezer,  saw  Moth¬ 
er,  and  died  with  an  unbelieva¬ 
ble  look  of  horror  frozen  on  his 
face. 

The  only  trouble  was  I  had  to 
go  through  the  whole  damn 
business  with  the  levers  and 
pulleys  again  to  get  his  body  in¬ 
to  the  freezer  with  Mother.  But 
I  succeeded  in  letting  him  down 
easy  and  didn’t  disturb  the  food, 
so  it  really  wasn’t  too  bad. 

The  wake  was  marvelous.  I  lit 


33 


Prodigy 


candles  all  over  the  house, 
turned  on  the  hi-fi  and  danced 
and  floated  through  all  the 
rooms  in  the  house.  It  was  a 
ball.  A  real  ball! 

But  the  best  is  yet  to  come. 
There’s  more  fun  pending. 
When  I  tire  of  being  alone.  I’m 
going  to  call  Aunt  Martha.  Then 
I’ll  cry  and  say  I’m  all  alone  and 
can’t  find  Mother  or  Father.  Of 
course  she’ll  break  her  neck  get¬ 
ting  here. 


First,  though,  I’m  going  to 
turn  off  the  deep  freeze  and 
wait  until  my  dear  departed 
parents  are  just  about  ripe.  And 
then,  when  I  ask  Aunt  Martha 
for  some  ice  cream  —  well,  you 
can  imagine  what  fun  I’m  going 
to  have. 

Of  course,  I  don’t  have  a  wor¬ 
ry  in  the  world  about  anyone 
suspecting  me.  After  all,  I’m  on¬ 
ly  a  five-year-old  girl,  and  the 
best  part  is  I  only  look  four. 

I  never  did  look  my  age. 


THE  LOVECRAFT  CORRESPONDENCE 

Among  your  editor’s  most  treasured  souvenirs  are  two 
letters  received  from  H.  P.  Lovecraft,  the  second  written 
within  a  fortnight  of  his  death,  in  February  1937.  We 
were  delighted  when  we  heard  in  1939,  that  August 
Derleth  and  Donald  Wandrei  planned  to  bring  out 
collections  not  only  of  HPL’s  stories  and  novels,  but 
also  the  correspondence;  for  while  we  still  enjoy 
most  of  the  stories,  the  letters  revealed  as  fascinating 
and  many-sided  character  as  one  could  hope  to  encoun¬ 
ter  in  these  days. 

Now,  after  many  delays,  the  first  of  three  volumes  of 
the  letters  is  being  published  by  Arkham  House,  Sauk 
City,  Wisconsin.  This  volume,  Mr.  Derleth  states,  “con¬ 
tains  the  best  of  the  available  letters  from  the  earliest 
letter  found  through  the  year  1926;  it  reveals  many  as¬ 
pects  of  Lovecraft  which  have  eithei;  been  unknown  or 
had  scant  publicity  before.  The  letters  are  the  product 
of  an  uncommonly  erudite  man,  a  gentleman  and  a 
scholar  with  a  charming  sense  of  humor  .  .  .” 

The  price  of  this  volume  is  $6.00. 


L  KoLrl  W.  CliamLe 


A  reader  writes  to  inquire  if  Robert  W.  Chambers  ever  wrote  a  three-act 
play  entitled  The  King  In  Yellow,  which  he  quotes  in  his  short  stories  and 
novelets.  To  the  best  of  our  knowledge,  he  did  not  any  more  than  H.  P. 
Lovecraft  wrote  a  volume  of  horrendous  and  forbidden  knowledge,  entitled 
The  Necronomicon,  from  which  he  quotes  in  his  tales.  In  both  instances, 
the  fragments  are  all  that  exist.  This  is  the  third  and  last  of  the  tales  where¬ 
in  the  terrible  King  In  Yellow  is  referred  to.  The  first,  The  Repairer  Of 
Reputations,  appeared  in  our  February  1964  issue;  the  second,  The  Yellow 
Sign,  was  in  our  August  1963  issue.  Coming  to  die  end  of  this  story,  we 
regretted  once  again  that  the  King  (both  as  a  play  which  has  such  ghastly 
affect  upon  those  who  read  it,  and  as  a  frightful  being  which  seems  to  have 
some  existence  independent  of  the  play)  figures  in  less  than  half  the  length 
of  the  volume  to  bear  that  tide.  But,  perhaps  Chambers  was  wise  in  stop¬ 
ping  before  his  readers  had  had  enough! 


Camilla.  You,  sir,  should  unmask. 
Stranger.  Indeed? 

Cassilda.  Indeed  it’s  time.  We  all 
have  laid  aside  disguise 
but  you. 

Stranger.  I  wear  no  mask. 

Camilla  (terrified,  aside  to  Cassilda). 
No  mask?  No  mask! 
-“The  King  in  Yellow," 
act  i.,  scene  2. 


ALTHOUGH  I  knew  nothing 
of  chemistry,  I  listened  fascinat¬ 
ed.  He  picked  up  an  Easter  lily 
which  Genevieve  had  brought 
that  morning  from  Notre  Dame 
and  dropped  it  into  the  basin. 
Instantly  the  liquid  lost  its  crys¬ 
talline  clearness.  For  a  second 


34 


the  lily  was  enveloped  in  a  milk- 
white  foam,  which  disappeared, 
leaving  the  fluid  opalescent. 
Changing  tints  of  orange  and 
crimson  played  over  the  surface, 
and  then  what  seemed  to  be  a 
ray  of  pure  sunlight  struck 
through  from  the  bottom  where 
the  lily  was  resting.  At  the  same 
instant  he  plunged  his  hand  into 
the  basin  and  drew  out  the 
flower.  “There  is  no  danger,”  he 
explained,  “if  you  choose  the 
right  moment.  That  golden  ray 
is  the  signal.” 

He  held-,  the  lily  towards  me 
and  I  took  it  in  my  hand.  It  had 
turned  to  stone,  to  the  purest 
marble. 

“You  see,”  he  said,  “it  is  with¬ 
out  a  flaw.  What  sculptor  could 
reproduce  it?” 

The  marble  was  white  as 
snow;  but  in  its  depths  the  veins 
of  the  lily  were  tinged  with 
palest  azure,  and  a  faint  flush 
lingered  deep  in  its  heart. 

“Don’t  ask  me  the  reason  of 
that,”  he  smiled,  noticing  my 
wonder.  “I  have  no  idea  why  the 
veins  and  heart  are  tinted,  but 
they  always  are.  Yesterday  I 
tried  one  of  Genevieve’s  gold¬ 
fish  —  there  it  is.” 

The  fish  looked  as  if  sculp- 
tored  in  marble.  But  if  you  held 
it  to  the  light  the  stone  was 
beautifully  veined  with  a  faint 
blue,  and  from  somewhere  with¬ 
in  came  a  rosy  light  like  the  tint 
which  slumbers  in  an  opal.  I 
looked  into  the  basin.  Once 


more  it  seemed  filled  with  clear¬ 
est  crystal. 

“If  I  should  touch  it  now?”  I 
demanded. 

“I  don’t  know,”  he  replied, 
“but  you  had  better  not  try.” 

“There  is  one  thing  I’m  curi¬ 
ous  about,”  I  said,  “and  that  is 
where  the  ray  of  sunlight  came 
from.” 

“It  looked  like  a  sunbeam, 
true  enough,”  he  said.  “I  don’t 
know,  it  always  comes  when  I 
immerse  any  living  thing.  Per¬ 
haps,”  hte  continued,  smiling  — 
“perhaps  it  is  the  vital  spark  of 
the  creature  escaping  to  the 
source  whence  it  came.” 

I  saw  he  was  mocking,  and 
threatened  him  with  a  mahl- 
stick;  but  he  only  laughed  and 
changed  the  subject. 

“Stay  to  lunch.  Genevieve 
will  be  here  directly.” 

“I  saw  her  going  to  early 
mass,”  I  said,  “and  she  looked 
as  fresh  and  sweet  as  that  lily 
—  before  you  destroyel  it.” 

“Do  you  think  I  destroyed  it?” 
said  Boris,  gravely. 

“Destroyed,  preserved,  how 
can  we  tell?” 

We  sat  in  the  comer  of  a  stu¬ 
dio  near  his  unfinished  group 
of  “The  Fates”.  He  leaned  back 
on  the  sofa,  twirling  a  sculptor’s 
chisel  and  squinting  at  his  work. 

“By-the-way,”  he  said,  “I  have 
finished  pointing  up  that  old 
academic  ‘Ariadne’,  and  I  sup¬ 
pose  it  will  have  to  go  to  the 
Salon.  It’s  all  1  have  ready  this 


36 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


year,  but  after  the  success  the 
‘Madonna’  brought  me  I  feel 
ashamed  to  send  a  thing  like 
that.” 

The  ‘Madonna,”  an  exquisite 
marble,  for  which  Genevieve  had 
sat,  had  been  the  sensation  of 
last  year’s  Salon.  I  looked  at  the 
“Ariadne”.  It  was  a  magnificent 
piece  of  technical  wojjc;  but  I 
agreed  with  Boris  that  me  world 
would  expect  something  better 
of  him  than  that.  Still,  it  was 
impossible  now  to  think  of  fin¬ 
ishing  in  time  for  the  Salon  that 
splendid,  terrible  group  half 
shrouded  in  the  marble  behind 
me.  “The  Fates”  would  have  to 
wait. 

WE  WERE  proud  of  Boris 
Yvain.  We  claimed  him  and  he 
claimed  us  on  the  strength  of 
his  having  been  born  in  Ameri¬ 
ca,  although  his  father  was 
French  and  his  mother  was  a 
Russian.  Every  one  in  the  Beaux 
Arts  called  him  Boris.  And  yet 
there  were  only  two  of  us  whom 
he  addressed  in  the  same  famil¬ 
iar  way  —  Jack  Scott  and  myself. 

Perhaps  my  being  in  love 
with  Genevieve  had  something 
to  do  with  his  affection  for  me. 
Not  that  it  had  ever  been  ac¬ 
knowledged  between  us.  But 
after  all  was  settled,  and  she 
had  told  me  with  tears  in  her 
eyes  that  it  was  Boris  whom 
she  loved,  I  want  over  to  his 
house  and  congratulated  him. 
The  perfect  cordiality  of  that 


interview  did  not  deceive  either 
of  us,  I  always  believed,  al¬ 
though  to  one  at  least  it  was  a 
great  comfort.  I  do  not  think  he 
and  Genevieve  ever  spoke  of  the 
matter  together,  but  Boris 
knew. 

Genevieve  was  lovely.  The 
Madonna-like  purity  of  her  face 
might  have  been  inspired  by 
the  “Sanctus”  in  Gounod’s  Mass. 
But  I  was  always  glad  when  she 
changed  that  mood  for  what  we 
called  her  “April  Maneuvers”. 
She  was  often  as  variable  as  an 
April  day.  In  the  morning  grave, 
dignified,  and  sweet;  at  noon 
laughing,  capricious;  at  evening 
whatever  one  least  expected.  I 
preferred  her  so  rather  than  in 
that  Madonna-like  tranquility 
which  stirred  the  depths  of  my 
heart.  I  was  dreaming  of  Gen¬ 
evieve  when  he  spoke  again. 

“What  do  you  think  of  my 
discovery,  Alec?” 

“I  think  it  wonderful.” 

“I  shall  make  no  use  of  it,  you 
know,  beyond  satisfying  my 
own  curiosity  so  far  as  may  be, 
and  the  secret  will  die  with  me.” 

“It  would  be  rather  a  blow  to 
sculpture,  would  it  not?  We 
painters  lose  more  than  we  ever 
gain  by  photography.” 

Boris  nodded,  playing  with 
the  edge  of  the  chisel. 

“This  new,  vicious  discovery 
would  corrupt  the  world  of  art. 
No.  I  shall  never  confide  the  se- 
ret  to  any  one,”  he  said,  slowly. 

It  would  be  hard  to  find  any 


The 

one  less  informed  about  such 
phenomena  than  myself;  but  of 
course  I  had  heard  of  mineral 
springs  so  saturated  with  silica 
that  die  leaves  and  twigs  which 
fell  into  them  were  turned  to 
stone  after  a  time.  I  dimly  com¬ 
prehended  the  process,  how  the 
silica  replaced  the  vegetable 
matter,  atom  by  atom,  and  the 
result  was  a  duplicate  of  the  ob¬ 
ject  in  stone.  This  I  confess  had 
never  interested  me  gready, 
and,  as  for  the  ancient  fossils 
thus  produced,  they  disgusted 
me.  Boris,  it  appeared,  feeling 
curiosity  instead  of  repugnance, 
had  investigated  the  subject, 
and  had  accidentally  stumbled 
on  a  solution  which,  attacking 
the  immersed  object  with  a  fer¬ 
ocity  unheard  of,  in  a  second 
did  the  work  of  years.  This  was 
all  I  could  make  out  of  the 
strange  story  he  had  just  been 
telling  me.  He  spoke  again  after 
a  long  silence. 

“I  am  almost  frightened  when 
I  think  what-I  have  found.  Sci¬ 
entists  would  go  mad  over  the 
discovery.  It  was  so  simple,  too; 
it  discovered  itself.  When  I 
think  of  that  formula,  and  that 
new  element  precipitated  in  me¬ 
tallic  scales  .  .  .” 

“What  new  element?” 

“Oh,  I  haven’t  thought  of 
naming  it,  and  I  don’t  believe  I 
ever  shall.  There  are  enough 
precious  metals  now  in  the 
world  to  cut  throats  over.” 


Mask  87 

I  pricked  up  my  ears.  “Have 
you  struck  gold,  Boris?” 

“No,  better;  but  see  here, 
Alec!”  he  laughed,  starting  up. 
“You  and  I  have  all  we  need  in 
this  world.  Ah!  how  sinister  and 
covetous  you  look  already!”  I 
laughed,  too,  and  told  him  I  was 
devoured  by  the  desire  for  gold, 
and  we  had  better  talk  of  some¬ 
thing  else;  so,  when  Genevieve 
came  in  shortly  after,  we  had 
turned  our  backs  on  alchemy. 

Genevieve  was  dressed  in  sil¬ 
very  gray  from  head  to  foot. 
The  light  glinted  along  the  soft 
curves  of  her  fair  hair  as  she 
turned  her  cheek  to  Boris;  then 
she  saw  me  and  returned  my 
greeting.  She  had  never  before 
failed  to  blow  me  a  kiss  from 
the  tips  of  her  white  fingers, 
and  I  promptly  complained  of 
the  omission.  She  smiled  and 
held  '  out  her  hand,  which 
dropped  almost  before  it  had 
touched  mine;  then  she  said, 
looking  at  Boris:  “You  must  ask 
Alec  to  stay  for  luncheon.” 

This  also  was  something  new. 
She  had  always  asked  me  her¬ 
self  until  today. 

‘1  did,”  said  Boris,  shortly. 

“And  you  said  yes,  I  hope.” 
She  turned  to  me  with  a  charm¬ 
ing  conventional  smile.  I  might 
have  been  an  acquaintance  of 
the  day  before  yesterday.  I 
made  her  a  low  bow.  “favais 
bien  Vhonneur,  madame but, 
refusing  to  take  up  our  usual 
bantering  tone,  she  murmured 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


a  hospitable  commonplace  and 
disappeared.  Boris  and  I  Iqoked 
at  each  other. 

“I  had  better  go  home,  don’t 
you  think?”  I  asked. 

“Hanged  if  I  know,”  he  re¬ 
plied,  frankly. 

While  we  were  discussing  the 
advisability  of  my  departure, 
Genevieve  reappeared  in  the 
doorway  without  her  bonnet. 
She  was  wonderfully  beautiful; 
but  her  color  was  too  deep  and 
her  lovely  eyes  were  too  bright. 
She  came  straight  up  to  me  and 
took  my  arm. 

"Luncheon  is  ready.  Was  I 
cross,  Alec?  I  thought  I  had  a 
headache,  but  I  haven’t.  Come 
here,  Boris,”  and  she  slipped 
her  other  arm  through  his.  “Alec 
knows  that,  after  you,  there  is 
no  one  in  the  world  whom  I 
like  as  well  as  I  like  him,  so  if 
he  sometimes  feels  snubbed  if 
won’t  hurt  him.” 

“A  la  bonheurr  I  cried;  “who 
says  there  are  no  thunder-storms 
in  April?” 

“Are  you  ready?”  chanted 
Boris.  “Aye  ready”;  and  arm-in- 
arm  we  raced  into  the  dining¬ 
room,  scandalizing  the  servants. 
After  all,  we  were  not  so  much 
to  blame;  Genevieve  was  eight¬ 
een,  Boris  was  twenty-three, 
and  I  not  quite  twenty-one.  , 

II 

SOME  WORK  that  I  was  do¬ 
ing  about  this  time  on  the  deco¬ 


rations  for  Genevieve’s  boudoir 
kept  me  constantly  at  the  quaint 
little  hotel  in  the  Rue  Sainte- 
Cecile.  Boris  and  I  in  those  days 
labored  hard,  but  as  we  pleased, 
which  was  fitfully,  and  we  all 
three,  with  Jack  Scott,  idled  a 
great  deal  together. 

One  quiet  afternoon  I  had 
been  wandering  alone  over  the 
house  examining  curios,  prying 
into  odd  comers,  bringing  out 
sweetmeats  and  cigars  from 
strange  hiding-places,  and  at 
last  I  stopped  in  the  bathing- 
room.  Boris,  all  over  clay,  stood 
there  washing  his  hands. 

The  room  was  built  of  rose- 
colored  marble,  excepting  the 
floor,  which  was  tessellated  in 
rose  and  gray.  In  the  center  was 
a  square  pool  sunken  below  the 
surface  of  the  floor;  steps  led 
down  into  it;  sculptured  pillars 
supported  a  frescoed  ceiling.  A 
delicious  marble.  Cupid  ap¬ 
peared  to  have  just  alighted  on 
his  pedestal  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  room.  The  whole  interior  was 
Boris’s  work  and  mine.  Boris,  in 
his  working  clothes  of  white 
canvas,  scraped  the  traces  of 
clay  and  red  modelling-wax 
from  his  handsome  hands  and 
coquetted  over  his  shoulder 
with  the  Cupid. 

“I  see  you,”  he  insisted;  “don’t 
try  to  look  the  other  way  and 
pretend  not  to  see  me.  You 
know  who  made  you,  little  hum¬ 
bug!” 

It  was  always  my  role  to  in- 


The  Mask 


terpret  Cupid’s  sentiments  in 
these  conversations,  and  when 
my  turn  came  I  responded  in 
such  a  manner  that  Boris  seized 
my  arm  and  dragged  me  to¬ 
wards  the  pool,  declaring  he 
would  duck  me.  Next  instant  he 
dropped  my  arm  and  turned 
pale.  “Good  God!”  he  said,  “I 
forgot  the  pool  is  full  of  the 
solution!” 

I  shivered  a  little,  and  dryly 
advised  him  to  remember  better 
where  he  had  stored  the  preci¬ 
ous  liquid. 

“In  Heaven’s  name,  why  do 
you  keep  a  small  lake  of  that 
gruesome  stuff  here  of  all  plac¬ 
es?”  I  asked. 

“I  want  to  experiment  on 
something  large,”  he  replied. 

“On  me,  for  instance!” 

“Ah!  that  came  too  close  for 
jesting;  but  I  do  want  to  watch 
the  action  of  that  solution  on  a 
more  highly  organized  living 
body;  there  is  that  big,  white 
rabbit,”  he  said,  following  me 
into  the  studio. 

Jack  Scott,  wearing  a  paint- 
stained  jacket,  came  wandering 
in,  appropriated  all  the  Oriental 
sweetmeats  he  could  lay  his 
hands  on,  looted  the  cigarette- 
oase,  and  finally  he  and  Boris 
disappeared  together  to  visit 
the  Luxembourg  Gallery,  where 
a  new  silver  bronze  by  Rodin 
and  a  landscape  of  Monet’s  were 
claiming  the  exclusive  attention 
of  artistic  France.  I  went  back 
to  the  studio  and  resumed  my 


work.  It  was  a  Renaissance 
screen,  which  Boris  wanted  me 
to  paint  for  Genevieve’s  boud¬ 
oir.  But  the  small  boy  who  was 
unwillingly  dawdling  through  a 
series  of  poses  for  it  today  re¬ 
fused  all  bribes  to  be  good.  He 
never  rested  an  instant  in  the 
same  position,  and  inside  of  five 
minutes  I  had  as  many  differ¬ 
ent  outlines  of  the  little  beggar. 

“Are  you  posing  or  are  you 
executing  a  song  and  dance,  my 
friend?”  i  inquired. 

“Whichever  monsieur  pleas¬ 
es,”  he  replied,  with  an  angelic 
smile. 

Of  course  I  dismissed  him  for 
the  day,  and  of  course  I  paid 
him  for  the  full  time,  that  being 
the  way  we  spoil  our  models. 

After  the  young  imp  had 
one,  I  made  a  few  perfunctory 
aubs  at  my  work,  but  was  so 
thoroughly  out  of  humor  that  it 
took  me  the  rest  of  the  after¬ 
noon  to  undo  the  damage  I  had 
done,  so  at  last  I  scraped  my 
alette,  stuck  my  brushes  in  a 
owl  of  black  soap,  and  strolled 
into  the  smoking-room.  I  really 
believe  that,  excepting  Gene¬ 
vieve’s  apartments,  no  room  in 
the  house  was  so  free  from  the 
perfume  of  tobacco  as  this  one. 
It  was  a  queer  chaos  of  odds 
and  ends  hung  with  threadbare 
tapestry.  A  sweet-toned  old 
spinet  in  good  repair  stood  by 
the  window.  There  were  stands 
of  weapons,  some  old  and  dull, 
others  bright  and  modern,  fes- 


40 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


toons  of  Indian  and  Turkish 
armor  over  the  mantel,  two  or 
three  good  pictures,  and  a  pipe- 
rack.  It  was  here  that  we  used 
to  come  for  new  sensations  in 
smoking.  I  doubt  if  any  type  of 
pipe  ever  existed  which  was  not 
represented  in  that  rack.  When 
we  had  selected  one,  we  immed¬ 
iately  carried  it  somewhere  else 
and  smoked  it;  for  the  place 
was,  on  the  whole,  more  gloomy 
and  less  inviting  than  any  in  the 
house.  But  this  afternoon  the 
twilight  was  very  soothing;  the 
rugs  and  skins  on  the  floor 
looked  brown  and  soft  and 
drowsy;  the  big  couch  was  piled 
with  cushions. 

I  found  my  pipe  and  curled 
up  there  for  an  unaccustomed 
smoke  in  the  smoking-room.  I 
had  chosen  one  with  a  long, 
flexible  stem,  and,  lighting  it, 
fell  to  dreaming.  After  a  while 
it  went  out;  but  I  did  not  stir.  I 
dreamed  on  and  presently  fell 
asleep. 

I  AWOKE  TO  the  saddest 
music  I  had  ever  heard.  The 
room  was  quite  dark;  I  had  no 
idea  what  time  it  was.  A  ray  of 
moonlight  silvered  one  edge  of 
the  old  spinet,  and  the  polished 
wood  seemed  to  exhale  the 
sounds  as  perfume  floats  above 
,a  box  of  sandal-wood.  Someone 
rose  in  the  darkness  and  came 
away  weeping  quietly,  and  I 
was  fool  enough  to  cry  out, 
“Genevieve!” 


She  dropped  at  my  voice,  and 
I  had  time  to  curse  myself  while 
I  made  a  light  and  tried  to  raise 
her  from  the  floor.  She  shrank 
away  with  a  murmur  of  pain. 
She  was  very  quiet,  and  asked 
for  Boris.  I  carried  her  to  the 
divan,  and  went  to  look  for  him; 
but  he  was  not  in  the  house, 
and  the  servants  were  gone  to 
bed.'  Perplexed  and  anxious,  I 
hurried  back  to  Genevieve.  She 
lay  where  I  had  left  her,  look¬ 
ing  very  white. 

“I  can’t  find  Boris  nor  any  of 
the  servants,”  I  said. 

“I  know,”  she  answered,  faint¬ 
ly,  “Boris  has  gone  to  Ept  with 
Mr.  Scott.  I  did  not  remember 
when  I  sent  you  for  him  just 
now.” 

“But  he  can’t  get  back  in  that 
case  before  tomorrow  afternoon, 
and  —  are  you  hurt?  Did  I 
frighten  you  into  falling?  What 
an  awful  fool  I  am,  but  I  was 
only  half  awake.” 

“Boris  thought  you  had  gone 
home  before  dinner.  Do  please 
excuse  us  for  letting  you  stay 
here  all  this  time.” 

“I  have  had  a  long  nap,”  I 
laughed,  “so  sound  that  I  did 
not  know  whether  I  was  still 
asleep  or  not  when  I  found  my¬ 
self  staring  at  a  figure  that  was 
moving  towards  me,  and  called 
out  your  name.  Have  you  been 
trying  the  old  spinet?  You  must 
have  played  very  softly.” 

I  would  tell  a  thousand  more 
lies  worse  than  that  one  to  see 


The  Mask 


41 


the  look  of  relief  that  came  into 
her  face.  She  smiled  adorably 
and  said,  in  her  natural  voice: 
“Alec,  I  tripped  on  that  wolf’s 
head,  and  I  think  my  ankle  is 
sprained.  Please  call  Marie  and 
then  go  home.” 

I  did  as  she  bade  me,  and  left 
her  there  when  the  maid  came 


III 

AT  NOON  next  day  when  I 
called,  I  found  Boris  walking 
restlessly  about  his  studio. 

“Genevieve  is  asleep  just 
now,”  he  told  me;  “the  sprain  is 
nothing,  but  why  should  she 
have  such  a  high  fever?  The 
doctor  can’t  account  for  it;  or 
else  he  will  not,”  he  muttered. 

“Genevieve  has  a  fever?”  I 
asked. 

“I  should  say  so,  and  has  act¬ 
ually  been  a  little  light-headed 
at  intervals  all  night.  The  idea! 
—  gay  little  Genevieve,  without 
a  care  in  the  world  —  and  she 
keeps  saying  her  heart’s  broken 
and  she  wants  to  die!” 

My  own  heart  stood  still. 

Boris  leaned  against  the  door 
of  his  studio,  looking  down,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  his  kind, 
keen  eyes  clouded,  a  new  line 
of  trouble  drawn  “over  the 
mouth’s  good  mark,  that  made 
the  smile.”  The  maid  had  orders 
to  summon  him  the  instant  Gen¬ 
evieve  opened  her  eyes.  We 
waited,  and  Boris,  growing  rest¬ 


less,  wandered  about,  fussing 
with  modelling-wax  and  red 
clay.  Suddenly  he  started  for 
the  next  room.  “Come  and  see 
my  rose-colored  bath  full  of 
death,”  he  cried. 

“Is  it  death?”  I  asked,  to  hu¬ 
mor  his  mood. 

“You  are  not  prepared  to  call 
it  life,  I  suppose,”  he  answered. 

As  he  spoke  he  plucked  a  soli¬ 
tary  goldfish  squirming  and 
twisting  out  of  its  globe.  “We’ll 
send  this  one  after  the  other  — 
wherever  that  is,”  he  said.  There 
was  feverish  excitement  in  his 
voice.  A  dull  weight  of  fever 
lay  on  my  limbs  and  on  my 
brain  as  I  followed  him  to  the 
fair  crystal  pool  with  its  pink- 
tinted  sides;  and  he  dropped  the 
creature  in.  Falling,  its  scales 
flashed  with  a  hot,  orange 
gleam  in  its  angry  twistings  and 
contortions;  the  moment  it  struck 
the  liquid  it  became  rigid  and 
sank  heavily  to  the  bottom. 
Then  came  the  milky  foam,  the 
splendid  hues  radiating  on  the 
surface,  and  then  the  shaft  of 
pure,  serene  light  broke  through 
from  seemingly  infinite  depths. 
Boris  plunged  in  his  hand  and 
drew  out  an  exquisite  marble  I 
thing,  blue  veined,  rose  tinted, 
and  glistening  with  opalescent 
drops. 

“Child’s  play,”  he  muttered, 
and  looked  wearily,  longingly, 
at  me  —  as  if  I  could  answer 
such  questions!  But  Jack  Scott 
came  in  and  eptered  into  the 


42 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


“game”,  as  he  called  it,  with  ar¬ 
dor.  Nothing  would  do  but  to 
try  die  experiment  on  the  white 
rabbit  then  and  there.  I  was 
willing  that  Boris  should  find 
distraction  from  his  cares,  but  I 
hated  to  see  the  life  go  out  of  a 
warm,  living  creature,  and  I  de¬ 
clined  to  be  present. 

Picking  up  a  book  at  random, 
I  sat  down  in  the  studio  to  read. 
Alas,  I  had  found  The  King  in 
Yellow.  After  a  few  moments, 
which  seemed  ages,  I  was  put¬ 
ting  it  away  with  a  nervous 
shudder,  when  Boris  and  Jack 
came  in,  bringing  their  marble 
rabbit.  At  the  same  time  the 
bell  rang  above  and  a  cry  came 
from  the  sickroom.  Boris  was 
gone  like  a  flash,  and  the  next 
moment  he  called:  “Jack,  run 
for  the  doctor;  bring  him  back 
with  you.  Alec,  come  here.” 

I  went  and  stood  at  her  door. 
A  frightened  maid  came  out  in 
haste  and  ran  away  to  fetch 
some  remedy.  Genevieve,  sitting 
bolt  upright,  with  crimson 
cheeks  and  glittering  eyes,  bab¬ 
bled  incessantly  and  resisted 
Boris’s  gentle  restraint.  He  call¬ 
ed  me  to  help.  At  my  first  touch 
she  sighed  and  sank  back,  clos¬ 
ing  her  eyes,  and  then  —  then  — 
as  we  still  bent  above  her,  she 
opened  them  again,  looked 
straight  into  Boris’s  face,  poor, 
fever-crazed  girl,  and  told  her 
secret.  At  the  same  instant  our 
three  lives  turned  into  new 
channels;  the  bond  that  had 


held  us  so  long  together 
snapped  forever,  and  a  new 
bond  was  forged  in  its  place, 
for  she  had  spoken  my  name, 
and,  as  the  fever  tortured  her, 
her  heart  poured  out  its  load  of 
hidden  sorrow.  Amazed  and 
dumb,  I  bowed  my  head,  while 
my  face  burned  like  a  live  coal, 
and  the  blood  surged  in  my 
ears,’  stupefying  me  with  its 
clamor.  Incapable  of  movement, 
incapable  of  speech,  I  listened 
to  her  feverish  words  in  an  ag¬ 
ony  of  shame  and  sorrow.  I 
could  not  silence  her,  I  could 
not  look  at  Boris.  Then  I  felt  an 
arm  upon  my  shoulder,  and 
Boris  turned  a  bloodless  face  to 
mine. 

“It  is  not  your  fault,  Alec; 
don’t  grieve  so  if  she  loves  you 
.  .  .”  But  he  could  not  finish; 
and  as  the  doctor  stepped  swift¬ 
ly  into  the  room,  saying,  “Ah, 
the  fever!”  I  seized  Jack  Scott 
and  hurried  him  to  the  street, 
saying,  “Boris  would  rather  be 
alone.”  We  crossed  the  street  to 
our  own  apartments,  and  that 
night,  seeing  I  was  going  to  be 
ill,  too,  he  went  for  the  doctor 
again.  The  last  thing  I  recollect 
with  any  distinctness  was  hear¬ 
ing  Jack  say,  “For  Heaven’s 
sake,  doctor,  what  ails  him,  to 
wear  a  face  like  that?”  and  I 
thought  of  The  King  in  Yellow 
and  the  Pallid  Mask. 

I  WAS  VERY  ill,  for  the 
strain  of  two  years  which  I  had 


The  Mask 


43 


endured  since  that  fatal  May 
morning  when  Genevieve  mur- 
mered,  “I  love  you,  but  I  think 
I  love  Boris  best,”  told  on  me  at 
last.  I  had  never  imagined  that 
it  could  become  more  than  I 
could  endure.  Outwardly  tran¬ 
quil,  I  had  deceived  myself.  Al¬ 
though  the  inward  battle  raged 
night  after  night,  and  I,  lying 
alone  in  my  room,  cursed  myself 
for  rebellious  thoughts  unloyal 
to  Boris  and  unworthy  of  Gen¬ 
evieve,  the  morning  always 
brought  relief,  and  I  returned  to 
Genevieve  and  to  my  dear  Boris 
with  a  heart  washed  clean  by 
the  tempests  of  the  night. 

Never  in  word  or  deed  or 
thought  while  with  them  had  I 
betrayed  my  sorrow  even  to  my¬ 
self. 

The  mask  of  self-deception 
was  no  longer  a  mask  for  me;  it 
was  a  part  of  me.  Night  lifted  it, 
laying  bare  the  stifled  truth  be¬ 
low;  but  there  was  no  one  to 
see  except  myself,  and  when  day 
broke  the  mask  fell  back  again 
of  its  own  accord.  These 
thoughts  passed  through  my 
troubled  mind  as  I  lay  sick,  but 
they  were  hopelessly  entangled 
with  visions  of  white  creatures, 
heavy  as  stone,  crawling  about 
in  Boris’s  basin  —  of  the  wolfs 
head  on  the  rug,  foaming  and 
snapping  at  Genevieve,  who  lay 
smiling  bfeside  it.  I  thought,  too, 
of  the  King  in  Yellow  wrapped 
in  the  fantastic  colors  of  his  tat¬ 
tered  mantle,  and  that  bitter  cry 


of  Cassilda,  “Not  upon  us,  O 
King,  not  upon  us!”  Feverishly 
I  struggled  to  put  it  from  me, 
but  I  saw  the  Lake  of  Hali,  thin 
and  blank,  without  a  ripple  or 
wind  to  stir  it,  and  I  saw  the 
towers  of  Carcosa  behind  the 
moon.  Aldebaran,  the  Hyades, 
Alar,  Hastur,  glided  through  the 
cloud  rifts  which  fluttered  and 
flapped  as  they  passed  like  the 
Scalloped  tatters  of  the  King  in 
Yellow.  Among  all  these,  one 
sane  thought  persisted.  It  never 
wavered,  ho  matter  what  else 
was  going  on  in  my  disordered 
mind,  that  my  chief  reason  for 
existing  was  to  meet  some  re¬ 
quirement  of  Boris  and  Gene¬ 
vieve.  What  this  obligation  was, 
its  nature,  was  never  clear; 
sometimes  it  seemed  to  be  pro¬ 
tection,  sometimes  support, 
through  a  great  crisis.  Whatever 
it  seemed  to  be  for  the  time,  its 
weight  rested  only  on  me,  and  I 
was  never  so  ill  or  so  weak  that 
I  did  not  respond  with  my 
whole  soul.  There  were  always 
crowds  of  faces  about  me,  most¬ 
ly  strange,  but  a  few  I  recog¬ 
nized,  Boris  among  them.  After¬ 
wards  they  told  me  that  this 
could  not  have  been,  but  I  know 
that  once  at  least  he  bent  over 
me.  It  was  only  a  touch,  a  faint 
echo  of  his  voice,  then  the 
clouds  settled  back  on  my  sens¬ 
es,  and  I  lost  him,  but  he  did 
stand  there  and  bend  over  me 
once  at  least. 

At  last,  one  morning  I  awoke 


44 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


to  find  the  sunlight  falling 
across  my  bed,  and  Jack  Scott 
reading  beside  me.  I'  had  not 
strength  enough  to  speak  aloud, 
neither  could  I  think  much  less 
remember,  but  I  could  smile 
feebly  as  Jack’s  eye  met  mine, 
and,  when  he  jumped  up  and 
asked  eagerly  if  I  wanted  any¬ 
thing,  I  could  whisper,  “Yes, 
Boris.”  Jack  moved  to  the  head 
of  my  bed,  and  leaned  down  to 
arrange  my  pillow;  I  did  not  see 
his  face,  but  he  answered,  heart¬ 
ily,  “You  must  wait,  Alec,  you 
are  too  weak  to  see  even  Boris.” 

I  WAITED  and  I  grew 
strong;  in  a  few  days  I  was  able 
to  see  whom  I  would,  but  mean¬ 
while  I  had  thought  and  remem¬ 
bered.  From  the  moment  when 
all  past  grew  clear  again  in  my 
mind,  I  never  doubted  what  I 
should  do  when  the  time  came, 
and  I  felt  sure  that  Boris  would 
have  resolved  upon  the  same 
course  so  far  as  he  was  con¬ 
cerned;  as  for  what  pertained  to 
me  alone,  I  knew  he  would  see 
that  also  as  I  did.  I  no  longer 
asked  for  anyone.  I  never  in¬ 
quired  why  no  message  came 
from  them;  why,  during  the 
week  I  lay  there,  waiting  and 
growing  stronger,  I  never  heard 
their  names  spoken,  preoccu¬ 
pied  with  my  own  searchings 
for  the  right  way,  and  with  my 
feeble  but  determined  fight 
against  despair,  I  simply  acqui¬ 
esced  in  Jack’s  reticence,  taking 


for  granted  that  he  was  afraid 
to  speak  of  them,  lest  I  should 
turn  unruly  and  insist  on  seeing 
them. 

Meanwhile,  I  said  over  and 
over  to  myself  how  it  would  be 
when  life  began  again  for  us  all. 
We  would  take  up  our  relations 
exactly  as  they  were  before 
Genevieve  fell  ill.  Boris  and  I 
would  look  into  each  other’s 
eyes,  and  there  would  be  neith¬ 
er  rancor  nor  cowardice  nor 
mistrust  in  that  glance.  I  would 
be  with  them  again  for  a  little 
while  in  the  dear  intimacy  of 
their  home,  and  then,  without 
pretext  or  explanation,  I  would 
disappear  from  their  lives  for¬ 
ever.  Boris  would  know;  Gene¬ 
vieve  —  the  only  comfort  was 
that  she  would  never  know.  It 
seemed,  as  I  thought  it  over, 
that  I  had  found  the  meaning  of 
that  sense  of  obligation  which 
had  persisted  all  through  my 
delirium,  and  the  only  possible 
answer  to  it.  So,  when  I  was 
quite  ready,  I  beckoned  Jack 
to  me  one  day,  and  said:  “Jack, 

I  want  Boris  at  once,  and  take 
my  dearest  greeting  to  Gene¬ 
vieve  .  .  .” 

When  at  last  he  made  me  un¬ 
derstand  that  they  were  both 
dead,  I  fell  into  a  wild  rage  that 
tore  all  my  little  convalescent 
strength  to  atoms.  I  raved  and' 
cursed  myself  into  a  relapse, 
from  which  I  crawled  forth 
some  weeks  afterwards  a  boy  of 
twenty-one  who  believed  that 


The  Mask 


45 


his  youth  was  gone  forever.  I 
seemed  to  be  past  the  capability 
of  further  suffering,  and  one 
day,  when  Jack  handed  me  a 
letter  and  die  keys  to  Boris’s 
house,  I  took  them  without  a 
tremor  and  asked  him  to  tell  me 
all.  It  was  cruel  of  me  to  ask 
him,  but  there  was  no  help  for 
it,  and  he  leaned  wearily  on  his 
thin  hands  to  reopen  the  wound 
which  could  never  entirely  heal. 
He  began  very  quietly. 

“Alec,  unless  you  have  a  clue 
that  I  know  nothing  about,  you 
will  not  be  able  to  explain  any 
more  than  I  what  has  happened. 
I  suspect  that  you  would  rather 
not  hear  these  details,  but  you 
must  learn  them,  else  I  would 
spare  you  the  relation.  God 
knows  I  wish  I  could  be  spared 
the  telling.  I  shall  use  few 
words. 

“That  day  when  I  left  you  in 
the  doctor’s  care  and  came  back 
to  Boris,  I  found  him  working 
on  The  Fates.’  Genevieve,  he 
said,  was  sleeping  under  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  drugs.  She  had  been 
quite  out  of  her  mind,  he  said. 
He  kept  on  working,  not  talk¬ 
ing  any  more,  and  I  watched 
him.  Before  long  I  saw  that  the 
third  figure  of  the  group  —  the 
one  looking  straight  ahead,  out 
over  the  world  —  bore  his  face; 
not  as  you  ever  saw  it,  but  as  it 
looked  then  and  to  the  end.  This 
is  one  thing  for  which  I  should 
like  to  find  an  explanation,  but 
I  never  shall. 


“WELL,  HE  worked  and  I 
watched  him  in  silence,  and  we 
went  on  that  way  until  nearly 
midnight.  Then  we  heard  a  door 
open  and  shut  sharply,  and  a 
swift  rush  in  the  next  room. 
Boris  sprang  through  the  door¬ 
way,  and  I  followed;  but  we 
were  too  late.  She  lay  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pool,  her  hands 
across  her  breast.  Then  Boris 
shot  himself  through  the  heart.” 

Jack  stopped  speaking,  drops 
of  sweat  stood  under  his  eyes, 
and  his  thin  cheeks  twitched.  “I 
carried  Boris  to  his  room.  Then 
I  went  back  and  let  that  hellish 
fluid  out  of  the  pool,  and,  turn¬ 
ing  on  all  the  water,,  washed  the 
marble  clean  of  every  drop. 
When  at  length  I  dared  descend 
the  steps,  I  found  her  lying 
there  as  white  as  snow.  At  last, 
when  I  had  decided  what  was 
best  to  do,  I  went  into  the  labor¬ 
atory,  and  first  emptied  the  solu¬ 
tion  in  the  basin  into  the  waste- 
pipe;  then  I  poured  the  contents 
of  every  jar  and  bottle  after  it. 
There  was  wood  in  the  fire- 
lace,  so  I  built  a  fire,  and, 
reaking  the  locks  of  Boris’s 
cabinet,  I  burned  every  paper, 
notebook,  and  letter  that  I 
found  there.  With  a  mallet  from 
the  studio  I  smashed  to  pieces 
all  the  empty  bottles,  then,  load¬ 
ing  them  into  a  coal-scuttle,  I 
carried  them  to  the  cellar  and 
threw  them  over  the  red-hot 
bed  of  the  furnace. 

“Six  times  I  made  the  jour- 


46 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


ney,  and  at  last  not  a  vestige  re¬ 
mained  of  anything  which 
might  again  aid  one  seeking. for 
the  formula  which  Boris  h'ad 
found.  Then  at  last  I  dared  call 
the  doctor.  He  is  a  good  man, 
and  together  we  struggled  to 
keep  it  from  the  public.  Without 
him  I  never  could  have  succeed¬ 
ed.  At  last  we  got  the  servants 
paid  and  sent  away  into  the 
country,  where  old  Rosier  keeps 
them  quiet  with  stories  of  Bor¬ 
is’s  and  Genevieve’s  travels  in 
distant  lands,  whence  they  will 
not  return  for  years.  We  buried 
Boris  in  the  little  cemetery  of 
Sevres.  The  doctor  is  a  good 
creature,  and  knows  when  to 
pity  a  man  who  can  bear  no 
more.  He  gave  his  certificate  of 
heart  disease  and  asked  no 
questions  of  me.” 

Then,  lifting  his  head  from 
his  hands,  he  said,  “Open  the 
letter,  Alec;  it  is  for  us  both.” 

I  tore  it  open.  It  was  Boris’s 
will,  dated  a  year  before.  He 
left  everything  to  Genevieve, 
and,  in  case  of  her  dying  child¬ 
less,  I  was  to  take  control  of  the 
house  in  the  Rue  SainteCecile, 
and  Jack  Scott  the  management 
at  Ept.  On  our  deaths  the  pro¬ 
perty  reverted  to  his  mother’s 
family  in  Russia,  with  the  excep¬ 
tion  of  the  sculptured  marbles 
executed  by  himself.  These  he 
left  to  me. 

The  page  blurred  under  our 
eyes,  and  Jack  got  up  and 
walked  to  the  window.  Present¬ 


ly  he  returned  and  sat  down 
again.  I  dreaded  to  hear  what 
he  was  going  to  say;  but  he 
spoke  with  the  same  simplicity 
and  gentleness. 

“Genevieve  lies  before  the 
‘Madonna’  in  the  marble  room. 
The  ‘Madonna’  bends  tenderly 
above  her,  and  Genevieve  smiles 
back'  into  that  calm  face  that 
never  would  have  been  except 
for  her.” 

H  i  s  voice  broke,  but  he 
grasped  my  hgnd,  saying,  “Cour¬ 
age,  Alec.”  Next  morning  he  left 
for  Ept  to  fulfill  his  trust. 

IV 

THE  SAME  evening  I  took 
the  keys  and  went  into  the 
house  I  had  known  so  well.  Ev¬ 
erything  was  in  order,  but  the 
silence  was  terrbile.  Though  I 
went  twice  to  the  door  of  the 
marble  room,  I  could  not  force 
myself  to  enter.  It  was  beyond 
my  strength.  I  went  into  the 
smoking  room  and  sat  down  be¬ 
fore  the  spinet.  A  small  lace 
handkerchief  lay  on  the  keys, 
and  I  turned  away,  choking.  It 
was  plain  I  could  not  stay,  so  I 
locked  every  door,  every  win¬ 
dow,  and  the  three  front  and 
back  gates,  and  went  away. 
Next  morning  Alcide  packed 
my  valise,  and,  leaving  him  in 
charge  of  my  apartments,  I.  took 
the  Orient  express  for  Constan¬ 
tinople.  During  the  two  years 
that  I  wandered  through  the 


The  Mask 


47 


East,  at  first,  in  our  letters,  we 
never  mentioned  Genevieve  and 
Boris,  but  gradually  their  names 
crept  in.  I  recollect  particularly 
a  passage  in  one  of  Jack’s  letters 
replying  to  one  of  mine: 

“What  you  tell  me  of  seeing 
Boris  bending  over  you  while 
you  lay  ill,  and  feeling  his  touch 
on  your  face  and  hearing  his 
voice,  of  course  troubles  me. 
This  that  you  describe  must 
have  happened  a  fortnight  after 
he  died.  I  say  to  myself  that 
you  were  dreaming,  that  it  was 
part  of  your  delirium,  but  the 
explanation  does  not  satisfy  me, 
nor  would  it  you.” 

Towards  the  end  of  the  sec¬ 
ond  year  a  letter  came  from 
Jack  to  me  in  India  so  unlike 
anything  that  I  had  ever  known 
of  him  that  I  decided  to  return 
at  once  to  Paris.  He  wrote:  “I 
am  well,  and  sell  all  my  pic¬ 
tures,  as  artists  do  who  have  no 
need  of  money.  I  have  not  a 
care  of  my  own;  but  I  am  more 
restless  than  if  I  had.  I  am  un¬ 
able  to  shake  off  a  strange  anxi¬ 
ety  about  you.  It  is  not  appre¬ 
hension,  it  is  rather  a  breathless 
expectancy  —  of  what,  God 
knows!  I  can  only  say  it  is  wear¬ 
ing  me  out.  Nights  I  dream  al¬ 
ways  of  you  and  Boris.  I  can 
never  recall  anything  after¬ 
wards;  but  I  wake  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  with  my  heart  beating,  and 
all  day  the  excitement  increases 
until  I  fall  asleep  at  night  to  re¬ 
call  the  same  experience.  I  am 


quite  exhausted  by  it,  and  have 
determined  to  break  up  this 
morbid  condition.  I  must  see 
you.  Shall  I  go  to  Bombay  or 
will  you  come  to  Paris?” 

I  telegraphed  him  to  expect 
me  by  the  next  steamer. 

When  we  met  I  thought  he 
had  changed  very  little;  I,  he  in¬ 
sisted,  looked  in  splendid 
health.  It  was  good  to  hear  his 
voice  again,  and  as  we  sat  and 
chatted  abdut  what  life  still 
held  for  us  we  felt  that  it  was 
pleasant  to  be  alive  in  the  bright 
spring  weather. 

We  stayed  in  Paris  together 
a  week,  and  then  I  went  ;for  a 
week  to  Ept  with  him,  but  first 
of  all  we  went  to  the  cemetery 
at  Sevres,  where  Boris  lay. 

“Shall  we  place  The  Fates’  in 
the  little  grove  above  him?” 
Jack  asked,  and  I  answered: 

“I  think  only  the  ‘Madonna’ 
should  watch  over  Boris’s  grave.” 
But  Jack  was  none  the  better 
for  my  homecoming.  The 
dreams,  of  which  he  could  not 
retain  even  the  least  definite 
outline,  continued,  and  he  said 
that  at  times  the  sense  of  breath¬ 
less  expectancy  was  suffocating. 

“You  see,  I  do  you  harm  and  , 
not  good,”  I  said.  “Try  a  change 
without  me.”  So  he  started 
alone  for  a  ramble  among  the 
Channel  Islands,  and  I  went 
back  to  Paris.  I  had  not  yet  en¬ 
tered  Boris’s  house,  now  mine, 
since  my  return,  but  I  knew  it 
must  be  done.  It  had  been  kept 


48 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


in  order  by  Jack;  there  were 
servants  there,  so  I  gave  up  my 
own  apartment  and  went,  there 
to  live.  Instead  of  the  agitation 
I  had  feared,  I  found  myself 
able  to  paint  there  tranquilly.  I 
visited  all  the  rooms  —  all  but 
one.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
enter  the  marble  room,  where 
Genevieve  lay,  and  yet  I  felt 
the  longing  growing  daily  to 
look  upon  her  face,  to  kneel  be¬ 
side  her. 

ONE  APRIL  afternoon  I  lay 
dreaming  in  the  smoking  room, 
just  as  I  had  lain  two  years  be¬ 
fore,  and  mechanically  I  looked 
among  the  tawny  Eastern  rugs 
for  the  wolf  skin.  At  last  I  dis¬ 
tinguished  the  pointed  ears  and 
flat,  cruel  head,  and  I  thought 
of  my  dream,  where  I  saw  Gen¬ 
evieve  lying  beside  it.  The  hel¬ 
mets  still  hung  against  the 
threadbare  tapestry,  among 
them  the  old  Spanish  morion 
which  I  remembered  Genevieve 
had  once  put  on  when  we  were 
amusing  ourselves  with  the  an¬ 
cient  bits  of  mail.  I  turned  my 
eyes  to  the  spinet;  every  yellow 
key  seemed  eloquent  of  her  ca¬ 
ressing  hand,  and  I  rose,  drawn 
by  the  strength  of  my  life’s  pas¬ 
sion  to  the  sealed  door  of  the 
marble  room.  The  heavy  doors 
swung  inward  under  my  trem¬ 
bling  hands.  Sunlight  poured 
through  the  window,  tipping 
with  gold  the  wings  of  Cupid, 
and  lingered  like  a  nimbus  over 


the  brows  of  the  “Madonna”. 
Her  tender  face  bent  in  compas¬ 
sion  over  a  marble  form  so  ex¬ 
quisitely  pure  that  I  knelt  and 
signed  myself.  Genevieve  lay  in 
the  shadow  under  the  “Madon¬ 
na,”  and  yet,  through  her  white 
arms,  I  saw  the  pale  azure  vein, 
and  beneath  her  softly  clasped 
hands  the  folds  of  her  dress 
were  tinged  with  rose,  as  if 
from  some  faint,  warm  light 
within  her  breast. 

Bending,  with  a  breaking 
heart,  I  touched  the  marble 
drapery  with  my  lips,  then  crept 
back  into  the  silent  house. 

A  maid  came  and  brought  me 
a  letter,  and  I  sat  down  in  the 
little  conservatory  to  read  it; 
but  as  I  was  about  to  break  the 
seal,  seeing  the  girl  lingering,  I 
asked  her  what  she  wanted. 

She  stammered  something 
about  a  white  rabbit  that  had 
been  caught  in  the  house,  and 
asked  what  should  be  done  with 
it.  I  told  her  to  let  it  loose  in 
the  walled  garden  behind  the 
house,  and  opened  my  letter.  It 
was  from  Jack,  but  so  incoher¬ 
ent  that  I  thought  he  must  have 
lost  his  reason.  It  was  nothing 
but  a  series  of  prayers  to  me 
not  to  leave  the  house  until  he 
could  get  back;  he  could  not  tell 
me  why;  there  were  the  dreams, 
he  said  —  he  could  explain  noth¬ 
ing,  but  he  was  sure  that  I  must 
not  leave  the  house  in  the  Rue 
Sainte-Cecile. 

As  I  finished  reading  I  raised 


The  Mask  49 


my  eyes  and  saw  the  same 
maid-servant  standing  in  the 
doorway  holding  a  glass  dish  in 
which  two  gold-fish  were  swim¬ 
ming.  “Put  them  back  into  the 
tank  and  tell  me  what  you  mean 
by  interrupting  me,”  I  said. 

With  a  half-suppressed  whim¬ 
per  she  emptied  water  and  fish 
into  an  aquarium  at  the  end  of 
the  conservatory,  and,  turning 
to  me,  asked  my  permission  to 
leave  my  service.  She  said  peo¬ 
ple  were  playing  tricks  on  ner, 
evidently  with  a  design  of  get¬ 
ting  her  into  trouble;  the  marble 
rabbit  had  been  stolen  and  a 
live  one  had  been  brought  into 
the  house;  the  two  beautiful 
marble  fish  were  gone,  and  she 
had  just  found  those  common 
live  things  flopping  on  the  din¬ 


ing  room  floor.  I  reassured  her 
and  sent  her  away,  saying  I 
would  look  about  myself.  I  went 
into  the  studio;  there  was  noth¬ 
ing  there  but  my  canvasses  and 
some  casts,  except  the  marble 
of  the  Easter  lily.  I  saw  it  on  a 
table  across  the  room.  Then  I 
strode  angrily  over  to  it.  But  the 
flower  I  lifted  from  the  table 
was  fresh  and  fragile,  and  filled 
the  air  with  perfume. 

Then  suddenly  I  compre¬ 
hended,  and  sprang  through  the 
hallway  to  the  marble  room. 
The  doors  flew  open,  the  sun¬ 
light  streamed  into  my  face, 
and  through  it,  in  a  heavenly 
glory,  the  “Madonna”  smiled,  as 
Genevieve  lifted  her  flushed 
face  from  her  marble  couch  and 
opened  her  sleepy  eyes. 


Of  the  remaining  tales  that  make  up  the  volume,  The 
King  in  Yellow,  only  one  is  definitely  a  weird  tale,  “The 
Demoiselle  Dys”.  This  has  been  reprinted  in  several  an¬ 
thologies,  to  our  knowledge,  although,  so  far  as  we 
know,  there  has  been  no  magazine  reprint  of  it  since  the 
late  ’40’s.  Would  you  like  to  see  it  in  a  future  issue  of 
Magazine  of  Horror  and  Strange  Stories? 

Some  of  the  other  material  can  be  considered  strange; 
these  are  mood  pieces  for  the  most  part.  If  you  would 
like  us  to  select  the  most  outstanding  for  future  reprint, 
let  us  know. 


cltlr»  ^kaddeuA  ^IDarde 


Lf  RoLert  BarLur  jU  indon 


In  our  first  issue  (August  1903),  we  offered  you  A  Thing  of  Beauty, 
by  Wallace  West,  a  story  which  had  been  rejected  by  Farnsworth 
Wright  of  Weird  Tales  as  being  too  horrible.  The  present  story  was 
not  rejected  by  that  magazine;  it  was  accepted  —  but,  alas,  the  pub¬ 
lication  was  suspended  before  the  story  could  appear.  Robert  Barbour 
Johnson’s  tales  appeared  in  the  30’s  in  WT,  and  one  of  them  ( Far 
Below)  was  selected  for  an  anthology  entitled  Editor’s  Choice  in  Sci¬ 
ence  Fiction,  published  by  McBride  in  the  ’50’s.  Edited  by  Sam  Mos- 
kowitz,  this  could  have  been  an  outstanding  volume,  but  the  interfer¬ 
ence  of  McBride’s  general  editor,  and  the  publisher  itself,  made  it’  a 
travesty.  Far  Below  was  only  one  of  the  stories  which  had  no  place 
in  suoh  an  anthology  (in  fact,  only  two  out  of  the  twelve  could  be 
considered  science  Fiction  at  all),  but  it  was  and  is  a  very  fine  weird 
tale,  a  serious  treatment  of  the  ghoul  theme.  The  present  story  takes 


IT  SEEMS  indeed  curious 
that  the  affair  of  Mr.  Thaddeus 
Warde  should  have  attracted  so 
little  attention. 

Almost  three  years  have 
passed  since  those  singular 
events  in  the  Catskills;  and  stjll 
hardly  anything  has  been  writ¬ 
ten  about  them.  Even  verbal  dis¬ 
cussion  seems  to  have  complete¬ 


ly  died  out.  One  would  almost 
mink  that  the  thing  had  never 
happened,  at  all! 

Which  is  a  most  inexplicable 
state  of  affairs.  For  even  in  an 
age  of  Sputniks  and  Space 
Races,  what  took  place  in  that 
epic  September  of  1958  would 
still  seem  to  be  important.  In¬ 
deed,  it  might  be  described  as 


50 


world-shaking!  For  here,  fully 
documented  and  attested,  we 
have  what  seems  to  be  the  only 
absolutely  authentic  instance  of 
survival  after  Death  that  mod- 
dern  history  records.  If  one  ac¬ 
cepts  its  implications  (and  it  is 
difficult  to  do  otherwise,  in  view 
of  all  the  evidence )  then  we  are 
confronted  by  something  quite 
outside  the  normal  limits  of  our 
human  experience. 

And  yet,  though  contempo¬ 
rary  Mankind  has  presumably 
been  seeking  just  such  proof,  it 
seems  strangely  hesitant  to  seize 
upon  that  evidence,  now  that  it 
has  actually  been  presented. 
There  is  a  noticeable  tendency 
to  ignore  it,  even  to  try  to  forget 
about  it,  entirely.  Spiritualist  or¬ 
ganizations  and  religious  groups 
especially  have  manifested  this 
tendency.  One  seeks  in  vain,  in 
their  publications,  for  even  a 
mention  of  Mr.  Thaddeus 
Warde.  Which  is,  perhaps,  not 
wholly  inexplicable;  for  while 
the  facts  surrounding  that  gen¬ 
tleman’s  decease  do  seem  to 
prove  Survival  of  a  sort,  still,  it 
is  not  exactly  the  kind  of  Sur¬ 
vival  they  mean.  .  .  . 

And  yet  it  did  happen;  there 
is  no  doubting  that.  The  evidence 
is  overwhelming.  Police  reports, 
testimony  of  reputable  witness¬ 
es,  Coroner’s  verdicts,  news¬ 
paper  files,  all  combine  to  attest 
it.  The  posthumous  doings  of 
Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde  are  as 
well  attested  as,  let  us  say,  the 
living  doings  of  Mr.  Dwight  D. 


Eisenhower  during  that  same 
period. 

Indeed,  the  only  part  of  the 
whole  account  which  is  in  the 
least  obscure  is  the  previous  his¬ 
tory  of  its  protagonist.  Like  the 
thane  in  Shakespeare’s  Mac¬ 
beth,  nothing  in  Mr.  Thaddeus 
Warde’s  life  so  became  him  as 
the  leaving  it— or  at  least  attract¬ 
ed  nearly  so  much  publicity!  We 
first  hear  of  the  man  only  as  he 
lies  dying,  in  hs  ancestral  man¬ 
sion  at  Deyvillkill,  in  New  York 
State  —  one  of  those  small,  but 
very  wealthy  communities  that 
dot  that  fashionable  region.  Be¬ 
fore  that,  he  seems  to  have  at¬ 
tracted  absolutely  no  notice. 

But  then,  men  like  Mr.  Warde 
do  not  particularly  seek  to  at¬ 
tract  the  world’s  attention  and 
acclaim;  they  are  quite  content 
merely  to  exist.  For  Mr.  Warde 
belonged  to  that  small  and  rare 
portion  of  the  American  popu¬ 
lace  known  as  “the  Idle  Rich”. 
It  is  generally  believed  that  there 
are  no  more  Idle  Rich  in  a  na¬ 
tion  convinced  of  their  total 
disappearance  before  modern 
Progress.  But  despite  more  than 
twenty  years  of  hostile  Nation¬ 
al  administrations  there  do  still 
contrive  to  survive  here  and 
there,  a  few  persons  who  subsist 
entirely  upon  unearned  incre¬ 
ment.  And  Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde 
was  one  of  these. 

HE  WASNT  a  “Montgomery” 
Ward;  there  is  an  “e”  in  the 
name.  He  was  one  of  the  New 


51 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


England  textile  Wardes,  the 
shipping  Wardes,  and  the  oil 
Wardes  —  to  mention  only  a 
few  of  the  activities  in  which 
his  ancestors  had  been  engaged 
for  generations,  and  become 
principal  stockholders.  His  in¬ 
come,  even  after  present-day 
taxes,  was  still  around  a  couple 
of  million  dollars  per  annum, 
which  sufficed  for  his  simple 
needs.  Mr.  Warde  toiled  not; 
neither  did  Mr.  Warde  spin.  He 
did  nothing,  and  had  done  noth¬ 
ing  for  almost  fifty  years  of  life 
but  be  bom,  grow  up,  attend 
Groton  and  Harvard,  travel  a 
bit,  and  putter  about  his  ances¬ 
tral  estate  at  Deyvillkill-On-The- 
Hudson.  He  did  not  even  main¬ 
tain,  as  did  most  of  his  male  as¬ 
sociates,  offices  in  the  Metropo¬ 
lis  to  which  they  commuted 
daily,  under  the  pretense  that 
they  were  working.  Mr.  Warde 
was  an  old-fashioned  Idle  Rich, 
and  saw  no  reason  for  such  mas¬ 
querade.  Moreover  he  was  par¬ 
simonious,  and  resented  putting 
up  money  for  the  rent.  .  .  . 

Such  a  man  could  not  but  re¬ 
main  obscure  in  a  nation  uni¬ 
versally  devoted  to  exactly  op¬ 
posite  ideals.  He  would  have 
been  deplored  equally  by  Rota¬ 
ry  Club  members  and  Mr.  Nor¬ 
man  Thomas!  He  was  a  drone, 
an  excresence  upon  Society,  and 
completely  indefensible.  He  was 
not  even  attractive  physically  — 
being  a  frail,  runty  individual, 
with  large  ears  and  gold-rimmed 
spectacles,  and  almost  complete¬ 


ly  bald.  He  had  never  partici¬ 
pated  in  any  sports  or  athletics; 
the  only  trophies  he  had  ever 
won  were  on  the  Groton  Debat¬ 
ing  Team  (which  seems  to  have 
lost  consistently  during  the  years 
he  was  a  member  of  it)  and  he 
was  definitely  not  what  was 
known  as  a  ‘mixer’.  In  short, 
there  was  absolutely  nothing 
outstanding  or  even  interesting 
about  Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde,  up 
to  his  moment  of  departure. 

And  his  death,  when  it  oc¬ 
curred,  seemed  equally  com¬ 
monplace.  For  it  was,  apparent¬ 
ly,  the  result  of  a  hunting  acci¬ 
dent  —  one  of  scores  that  take 
place  in  the  Catskills  every 
Fall,  and  attract  hardly  any  no¬ 
tice.  There  was,  perhaps,  some 
passing  irony  in  the  fact  that 
the  one  thing  remotely  resembl¬ 
ing  a  sport  in  which  Mr.  Warde 
occasionally  indulged  should  be 
the  cause  of  his  demise.  Or,  as  his 
detractors  put  it,  he  couldn’t 
even  go  pheasant  shooting  on 
his  own  estate  without  contriv¬ 
ing  to  shoot  himself! 

Be  that  as  it  may,  he  had 
been  found  lving  in  a  thicket 
about  a  half-mile  from  his 
house,  half-way  through  a 
barbed-wire  fence,  his  discharg¬ 
ed  shotgun  lving  beside  him, 
and  with  a  hole  in  his  back.  He 
had  been  carried  home  by  ser¬ 
vants  and  neighbors,  placed  in 
his  own  bed  and  breathing  his 
last  in  the  most  decorous  and 
prosaic  manner  imaginable.  His 
obituary  —  already  ‘set  up’  in 


The  Life-After-Death  Of  Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde  53 


newspapers,  both  local  and 
Metropolitan,  and  only  awaiting 
final  word  to  be  printed  — 
simply  listed  him  as  among  the 
many  victims  of  the  oldest  and 
most  routine  accident  since  the 
invention  of  firearms! 


THERE  WERE,  of  course, 
one  or  two  small  details  that  did 
not  seem  to  square  with  this 
comforting  explanation.  It  did 
seem  a  bit  odd  that  a  mere  shot¬ 
gun,  dropped  accidentally  and 
going  off,  could  have  done  such 
very  extensive  damage  to  Mr. 
Warde’s  interior!  That  would 
seem  to  be  possible  only  if  the 
muzzle  were  actually  pressing 
against  his  back  when  discharg¬ 
ed.  However,  it  was  certainly 
Mr.  Warde’s  own  gun;  there 
was  no  trace  of  anyone  else  a- 
round,  and  no  evidence  of  foul 
play.  And  there.’s  no  way  of  pre¬ 
dicting  the  exact  size  of  the 
wound  any  gun  will  make.  This 
was  a  very  large  one;  that  was 
all  that  could  be  said. 


There  was,  however,  the  mat¬ 
ter  of  the  curious  expression  on 
Mr.  Warde’s  face  when  he  was 
found.  Though  completely  un¬ 
conscious  (and  nothing  was 
more  certain  than  that  he  would 
never  again  regain  conscious¬ 
ness  in  this  world! )  his  features 
registered  not  shock  or  surprise, 
but  such  a  look  of  concentrated 
fury  and  malignity  as  to  startle 
his  finders,  when  they  turned 
him  over.  Traces  of  that  expres¬ 


sion  were,  in  fact,  still  visible  as 
he  lay  now  on  his  last  bed. 

But  while  such  minor  matters 
might  arouse  curiosity,  and  even 
gossip,  they  were  not  enough 
to  bring  about  any  sort  of  police 
investigation  —  certainly  not  in 
a  place  like  Deyvillkill!  Its  pop¬ 
ulation  being  almost  exclusively 
socialite  (with  the  exception  of 
a  few  stolid  Dutch  burghers 
viewing  the  antics  of  these  fash¬ 
ionable  invaders  of  their  origi¬ 
nal  homeland  with  their  usual 
massive  incuriosity)  even  the 
slightest  hint  of  a  crime  was  de¬ 
plorable,  and  to  be  avoided  at 
all  costs.  That  attitude  is  tradi¬ 
tional,  and  has  always  been.  It 
will  be  recalled  that  when  an 
attempt  was  made  to  assassinate 
J.  P.  Morgan  some  years  ago, 
the  sole  concern  of  the  intend¬ 
ed  victim  and  his  family  was  to 
hush  the  whole  matter  up,  and 
avoid  publicity  —  which  was 
deemed  far  worse  than  the 
crime  itself. 

The  local  police  force  (five 
men  and  a  superintendent) 
were  quite  aware  of  this  point 
of  view  —  and  also,  who  paid 
their  salaries!  They  had  no  in¬ 
tention  of  doing  anything  that 
would  cause  the  slightest  un¬ 
pleasantness.  They  dropped  a- 
round,  received  the  information, 
filed  a  routine  report  of  acci¬ 
dental  dearth;  and  that  was  that. 
The  following  day,  a  Coroner’s 
Jury  reached  a  similar  verdict, 
without  leaving  the  box.  As  for 
the  State  Troopers,  when  they 


54 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


arrived,  they  confined  their  ef¬ 
forts  to  directing  traffic  in  front 
of  the  estate. 

So  the  scene  was  one  of  com¬ 
plete  decorum  and  respectabili¬ 
ty,  with  nothing  whatever  to 
mar  it.  Outside,  the  multi-hued 
glory  of  the  Catskills  in  Fall,  the 
stately  old  mansion  with  its 
white  columns  amid  still-green 
lawns,  the  constant  procession 
of  glittering  motor  vehicles,  ar¬ 
riving  and  departing  with  mes¬ 
sages  and  condolences  to  the 
stricken  household.  And  inside, 
behind  drawn  blinds,  the  ser¬ 
vants  going  about  on  tiptoe. 
While  in  the  kitchen,  the  black- 
clad  minions  of  Mr.  Daniel 
Grew,  the  fashionable  under¬ 
taker,  were  waiting  to  take  over 
the  remains’  as  soon  as  they 
might  be  officially  certified  as 
such. 

In  the  old-fashioned  Dutch 
parlor,  the  grieving  widow  was 
being  consoled  by  a  few  close 
friends.  For  Mr.  Warde  had  a 
wife!  Perhaps  the  only  uncon¬ 
ventional  thing  in  his  otherwise 
conventonal  life.  A  couple  of 
years  before,  he  had  succumbed 
to  matrimony  —  not  in  his  own 
set,  but  a  dazzling  young  wom¬ 
an  from  the  New  York  musical 
stage.  Her  name  had  been  ‘Crys¬ 
tal  Dawn’,  though  it  was  whis¬ 
pered  that  it  was  really 
O’Shaunessy  (of  the  Lower 
Flatbush  O’Shaunessys ) .  How¬ 
ever,  her  conduct  had  been  ir¬ 
reproachable  since  her  arrival  in 
Devvillkill;  and  her  beauty  and 


charm  had  made  her,  on  the 
whole,  better  liked  than  her 
husband  was!  She  had  been  an 
excellent  spouse  in  every  respect, 
during  her  short  tenure;  and 
there  was  no  mistaking  her  tear¬ 
ful  grief  for  her  husband  now. 
Indeed,  it  struck  some  of  the  by¬ 
standers  as  a  bit  excessive;  as 
they  whispered  privately,  she  I 
was  not  only  being  relieved  of  i 
an  unpleasant  pipsqueak  many  1 
years  her  senior,  but  was  about  1 
to  become  one  of  New  York  I 
State’s  richest  heiresses  in  the  1 
bargain!  Nevertheless,  she  seem-  I 
ed  to  be  completely  prostrated.  1 

INDEED,  THE  only  part  of  I 
the  whole  house  where  anything  1 
indecorous  was  going  on  was  in  I 
that  shuttered  upper  bedroom,  I 
where  the  master  of  the  house  1 
lay  in  what  was  supposed  to  be  1 
extremis  —  surrounded  by  doc-  1 
tors,  nurses,  medical  parapher-  1 
nalia,  and  odors  of  iodoform  1 
and  antiseptics.  Since  the  per  ; 
capita  wealth  of  the  Deyvillkill  I 
region  is  perhaps  the  highest  in  j 
the  United  States,  its  medical  j 
talent  is  probably  the  best,  out-  1 
side  of  the  Metropolis  itself  —  I 
and  no  less  than  three  of  the  I 
town’s  doctors  were  in  attend-  I 
ance  on  Mr.  Warde.  The  trouble  1 
was,  there  was  absolutely  noth-  1 
ing  they  could  do  for  him;  there 
was  no  earthly  possibility  of 
saving  a  man  with  injuries  so 
extensive.  Important  portions  of 
Mr.  Warde’s  inner  workings  1 
were  clearly  visible  through  the 


The  Life- After-Death  Of  Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde 


55 


hole  in  his  back,  even  dangling 
whitely  out  onto  the  bedclothes. 
If  there  was  little  bleeding,  this 
was  only  because  most  of  his 
life-blood  had  already  drained 
away  before  he  was  found, 
staining  the  fallen  autumn 
leaves  a  deeper  purple.  He 
should,  in  short,  have  been  a 
corpse  a  long  time  ago. 

And  yet  he  wasn’t  —  quite! 
That  was  the  incredible  fact 
that  faced  his  physicians.  Al¬ 
most  three  hours  had  passed 
since  the  accident,  and  yet  life 
was  not  wholly  extinct  in  what 
lay  on  the  bed.  There  was  still 
an  occasional  flutter  of  pulse  in 
the  wrists  (though  one  had  on¬ 
ly  to  look  inside  to  see  that  the 
heart  was  not  beating).  A  mir¬ 
ror  held  before  the  blue  lips, 
still  misted  occasionally.  There 
was  even,  from  time  to  time,  a 
twitching  of  muscles  or  the  flut¬ 
ter  of  an  eyelid. 

In  other  words,  Mr.  Warde 
still  lingered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
—  though  how  he  was  managing 
to  do  so  in  his  mangled  state 
was  quite  beyond  scientific 
comprehension.  His  doctors 
could  only  stand  there  and  stare 
at  him,  fidgeting,  glancing  sur¬ 
reptitiously  at  their  watches,  and 
beginning  to  worry  about  wheth¬ 
er  they’d  even  get  home  for 
dinner.  Meanwhile,  they  men¬ 
tally  composed  articles  for  med¬ 
ical  journals  on  the  strangest 
case  that  any  of  them  had  ever 
encountered  —  a  man  who,  with 
all  the  physical  mechanism  of 


living  completely  destroyed,  still 
clung,  however  microscopically, 
to  life. 

Matters  were  still  in  this  un¬ 
satisfactory  state  when  young 
Gordon  Van  Der  Vere  arrived. 
He  was  a  neighbor,  a  somewhat 
impecunious  gentleman  who 
lived  in  a  small  cottage  not  far 
from  the  Warde  acres.  He  was 
of  impeccable  pedigree,  for 
New  York  State,  several  of  his 
ancestors  being  Stuyvesants  — 
and  one,  on  .  his  grandmother’s 
side,  reputedly  a  Van  Der  Roos¬ 
evelt.  But  he  had  squandered  his 
own  portion  of  the  family  inher¬ 
itance  a  long  time  ago,  and  was 
now  reduced  ( it  was  whispered ) 
to  earning  a  living  by  writing 
stories  for  magazines,  under  an 
alias  —  something  very  similar 
to  a  crime  in  Deyvillkill!  Yet 
curiously,  he  was  also  one  of 
Mr.  Warde’s  close  friends,  which 
meant  he  was  one  of  a  select 
few,  the  latter’s  somewhat  win¬ 
try  personality  not  attracting 
many.  But  a  surprising  intimacy 
seemed  to  have  developed  be¬ 
tween  the  two  dissimilar  types; 
and  it  was  remarked  that  young 
Van  Der  Vere  seemed  to  spend 
almost  as  much  time  in  the 
Warde  home  as  he  did  in  his 
own  small  cottage  only  a  couple 
of  miles  away.  He  had  been 
scheduled  to  accompany  his  eld¬ 
erly  colleague  on  the  ill-fated 
hunting  excursion,  but  urgent 
business  with  his  publisher  had 
compelled  him  to  beg  off  and 
drive  up  to  the  city  instead. 


56 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


HE  NOW  returned  hastily, 
having,  he  said,  heard  the  sad 
news  in  the  city  and  racing  his 
convertible  back  along  the  Storm 
King  Highway.  He  had  not  ex¬ 
pected  to  find  Mr.  Warde  still 
technically  in  the  land  of  the 
living,  and  expressed  amaze¬ 
ment;  the  story  in  New  York 
was  that  he  was  already  dead. 
Everyone  assured  him  that  that 
was  undoubtedly  true  in  all  but 
name;  it  would  only  be  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  minutes  —  in  fact,  no  one 
could  make  out  what  was  hold¬ 
ing  him  up! 

Mr.  Van  Der  Vere  professed 
appropriate  sorrow  and  grief, 
and  even  some  self-blame.  “If 
only  I’d  been  with  him  today, 
as  I  promised  I  would  be  —  if 
this  blasted  magazine  thing 
hadn’t  interfered  —  it  mightn’t 
have  happened.” 

Everyone  consoled  him  and 
assured  him  that  it  was  not  in 
any  way  his  fault. 

“Don’t  be  silly,”  an  elderly 
neighbor  told  him.  “How  could 
anyone  know  the  damned  idiot 
would  be  dumb  enough  not  to 
keep  the  safety  catch  on  his 
gun?”  The  remark  caused  raised 
eyebrows,  but  was  apparently 
an  accurate  summary  of  the 
facts. 

Mr.  Van  Der  Vere  also  spoke 
a  few  words  of  condolence  to 
the  widow;  they  withdrew  into 
a  corner  and  talked  in  low  tones, 
and  he  was  seen  to  pat  her  hand. 
Then  he  hurried  upstairs  to  re¬ 


ceive  the  latest  bulletins  on 
“poor  old  Thad!” 

The  doctors,  hearing  him  ' 
coming,  intercepted  him  in  the 
outer  hall.  “There’s  no  earthly  ; 
point  in  your  going  in,”  they  as¬ 
sured  him.  “You’d  only  harrow  j 
yourself  for  nothing  —  it’s  an  un-  1 
pleasant  sight,  and  there’s  noth-  , 
ing  anyone  can  do.  He’ll  die  any  ; 
minute.” 

“You  don’t  suppose  there’s  a 
chance  that  he  might  recognize  j 
me?”  Van  Der  Vere  asked. 

“Recognize?  Good  heavens,  1 
no!  He’ll  never  know  anyone  a- 
gain.  It’s  quite  hopeless.”  They  j 
started  to  describe  Mr.  Warde’s  j 
puzzling  condition,  but  in  the 
middle  of  it  there  was  a  sudden 
wild  scream  from  the  nurse  in-  ! 
side,  and  also  a  curious  dull 
thud. 

They  all  rushed  to  the  sick¬ 
room  door  and  flung  it  open.  A  j 
most  extraordinary  sight  con-  J 
fronted  them.  The  nurse,  open-  -j 
mouthed,  was  crouching  behind  1 
the  bed  and  pointing  wildly.  Mr. 
Warde  was  not  in  the  bed;  he  j 
was  lying  on  the  floor  facing  1 
them.  He  lay  prone,  arms  and  | 
legs  extended  and  head  raised  ; 
stiffly  like  a  turtle’s.  His  eyes 
were  wide  open  and  he  seemed  ] 
to  be  staring  at  them.  His  mouth  j 
was  also  wide  open,  with  an  ef¬ 
fect  of  snarling.  The  dim  light  j 
lent  a  curious  illusion  of  move-] 
ment,  as  if  he  were  actually! 
crawling  toward  them. 

For  a  moment,  sheer  amaze- 1 
ment  held  them  all  paralyzed.  3 


The  Life-After-Death  < 

Then  the  doctors  rushed  for¬ 
ward,  lifted  the  prone  form,  and 
hastily  restored  it  to  the  bed.  It 
was  immediately  apparent  what 
happened.  Some  last  dying,  con¬ 
vulsion,  a  rigor  of  muscles. 

“Extraordinary!”  Dr.  Pelham" 
muttered.  “Never  encountered 
one  of  such  magnitude  and  vio¬ 
lence.  I  must  write  it  up  for  the 
Journal.  .  .  .  Must  have  flung 
the  dying  man  into  that  fantas¬ 
tic  position.”  For  that  he  was 
dead,  there  was  now  no  ques¬ 
tion.  The  mirror  no  longer  mist¬ 
ed;  the  flesh  no  longer  twitched. 
Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde  was  now 
completely  and  certifiably  dead. 

The  doctors  drew  the  conven¬ 
tional  sheet  over  his  face,  gath¬ 
ered  up  their  paraphernalia,  and 
left  the  room.  “Er  —  no  need  to 
mention  that  little  contretemps 
downstairs,  eh  Mr.  Van  Der 
Vere?”  But  Van  Der  Vere  seem¬ 
ed  quite  incapable  of  mention¬ 
ing  anything. 

BELOW,  THE  doctors  receiv¬ 
ed  the  wan  thanks  of  the  widow 
and  her  friends,  and  accepted 
drinks  that  the  servants  were 
passing  around.  Then,  with  the 
air  of  men  whose  work  has  been 
well  done,  they  hurried  out  to 
their  waiting  limousines  and 
home  to  belated  dinners.  In  the 
room  they’d  left  behind,  Mr. 
Grew’s  young  men  in  black,  un¬ 
leashed  at  last,  were  already 
preparing  to  load  the  corpse  on¬ 
to  their  portable  trestle  and 


Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde  57 

whisk  it  away  to  the  undertak- 
ingparlors. 

They  got  it  aboard  (flirting 
with  the  nurses  meanwhile )  ana 
started  out  with  it  —  through 
the  back  way,  so  as  not  to  dis¬ 
turb  the  guests  below.  But  half¬ 
way  along  the  hall,  there  was 
an  interruption.  “Look  out!  He’s 
sliding  off!”  one  of  them  gasped. 
“Grab  him!” 

It  was  true;  one  of  Mr. 
Warde’s  limp  hands  was  already 
touching  the  carpet.  They  man¬ 
aged  to  right  him,  with  some 
effort,  and  moved  on. 

“Funny!”  the  other  young 
man  muttered.  “Never  knew  a 
stiff  to  slide  off  the  wheelbarrow 
before,  did  you?”  But  the  same 
thing  happened  twice  more  be¬ 
fore  they  got  the  remains  down¬ 
stairs  and  loaded  into  their  sleek 
black  van.  Though  completely 
inert,  Mr.  Warde  evidenced  a 
most  odd  disinclination  to  stay 
put.  It  was  decided  that  one  of 
the  men  would  ride  inside  to 
steady  him  in  place,  while  the 
other  drove  the  vehicle  slowly 
and  carefully  to  Mr.  Grew’s  neat 
Georgian  brick  establishment 
on  the  main  street  of  Deyvillkill, 
some  seven  miles  away. 

Mr.  Daniel  Grew  himself  was 
waiting  for  them  at  the  service 
entrance,  fuming  and  looking  at 
his  watch.  “What  the  devil  kept 
you  so  long?”  he  barked  as  they 
drove  up.  He  was  anxious  to  get 
home  to  his  own  dinner;  but,  in 
view  of  his  client’s  prominence, 
he  had  thought  it  best  to  tarry. 


58 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


“Had  to  wait  for  the  old  buz¬ 
zard  to  kick  off!”  the  assistant 
explained.  “He  took  an  awful 
long  time  doing  it.  Docs  can’t 
figure  it  out.  And  he  kept  slid- 
in’  off  the  meat  cart  when  we 
were  wheelin’  him  down.  That 
held  us  up  still  more.” 

“Sliding  off  the  trestle,  eh?” 
Mr.  Grew  eyed  him  balefully. 
“If  there’s  one  thing  1  won’t 
stand  for  it’s  drinking  on  the 
job!  All  right,  you  lugs,  I’ll 
wheel  him  in  myself.  You  two 
walk  on  each  side  of  him,  and 
brace  him.  That  way,  we’ll  take 
no  chances.” 

That  was  the  order  followed. 
The  body  was  trundled  to  soft 
recorded  organ  music,  through 
the  already  flower-banked  cha¬ 
pel  and  posh  retiring-rooms  to 
a  large  bare  laboratory  in  the 
rear,  where  the  more  utilitarian 
aspects  of  t  h  e  profession  were 
carried  on.  And  even  Mr.  Grew 
had  to  admit  that  the  body  did 
have  a  curious  tendency  to  fall 
off. 

“Odd!”  he  grumbled.  “Guess 
we’ll  have  to  order  a  new  tres¬ 
tle;  that  one  must  be  wearing 
out.  Oh,  well,  when  I  bill  the 
Departed’s  estate  for  this  job,  I 
can  afford  a  whole  new  build¬ 
ing!” 

Then,  after  an  interval  for 
dining,  the  staff  rolled  up  its 
sleeves  and  got  to  work  prepar¬ 
ing  the  remains  for  the  formal 
lying  in  state’  the  next  day.  And 
they  labored  far  into  the  night. 
Over  the  precise  details  of  their 


work,  we  will  not  linger,  since 
it  might  prove  disturbing  to  sen¬ 
sitive  readers.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  if  Mr.  Warde  had  not  been 
dead  when  they  began,  he  cer¬ 
tainly  was  by  the  time  they  fin¬ 
ished  with  him!  And  if  there 
were  moments  when  the  rubber- 
gloved  and  aproned  Mr.  Grew 
and  his  assistants  seemed  to  be 
wrestling  with  the  corpse,  it  was 
only  because  a  premature  rigor 
mortis  seemed  to  have  set  in, 
curiously  resisting  their  work  at 
times. 

But  of  life,  there  could  be  no 
question.  Modern  embalming 
processes,  if  not  quite  so  thor¬ 
ough  as  those  of  the  ancient 
Egyptians,  likewise  involve  the 
total  removal  of  interior  organs, 
the  draining  of  all  blood,  and 
filling  of  the  veins  with  poison¬ 
ous  preservative  fluids.  What 
was  left  on  the  slab  when  the 
job  was  done  was  not  a  man  at 
all,  but  only  a  sort  of  husk  — 
scarcely  more  than  the  discard¬ 
ed  shell  of  a  cicada.  Everything 
vital  had  been  flushed  down 
drains  or  rendered  in  vats 

The  countenance  of  the  de- 
ceasd  presented  a  more  difficult 
problem.  All  through  the  pro¬ 
ceedings  it  persisted  in  wearing 
an  expression  which  the  youth¬ 
ful  assistants  found  distinctly  up¬ 
setting,  even  in  the  bright  labor¬ 
atory  lights. 

“It’s  scarv!”  one  of  jthem  com¬ 
plained.  “Never  saw  anything 
like  it.  My  God,  we  can’t  show 


The  Life-After-Death  Of  Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde 


him  like  that!  People  would 
faint  ...” 

Mr.  Grew  was  finally  com¬ 
pelled  to  resort  to  some  small 
metal  clips,  which  he  produced 
from  a  drawer.  “Always  keep 
these  for  emergencies,”  he  said, 
hammering  them  expertly  into 
place.  “Never  know  when  you’ll 
get  one  of  these  stubborn  bas¬ 
tards!  Much  better  than  safety 
pins.”  The  shiny  points,  protrud¬ 
ing  sightly,  he  camouflaged  with 
lip-rouge.  So  with  a  little  glue 
on  the  eyelids,  and  some  cotton 
waste  up  the  nostrils,  the  face 
of  the  dead  man  was  finally 
made  to  assume  its  proper  ex¬ 
pression  of  dignity  and  peace. 

THE  BODY  LAY  in  the  cha¬ 
pel  all  through  the  next  day  and 
night,  while  everybody  who  was 
anybody  in  upper  New  York 
State  filed  past  to  view  it.  The 
spectators,  of  course,  did  not 
say  “Doesn’t  he  look  natural?” 
but  they  mumured  well-bred  e- 
quivalents.  Mr.  Grew,  hovering 
about  with  somewhat  the  air  of 
a  sculptor  unveiling  a  master¬ 
piece,  received  many  compli¬ 
ments.  There  were  no  untoward 
incidents  of  any  kind  during 
the  period  the  remains  were  in 
the  Parlors  —  though,  judging 
from  the  strained  expression  of 
the  staff,  there  seemed  to  be 
some  apprehension  that  there 
might  be!  Mr.  Grew,  for  reasons 
best  known  to  himself,  cranked 
the  heavy  metal  coffin-lid  down 
when  the  place  was  closed  for 


the  night  at  ten  o’clock.  And  if 
the  watchman  heard  peculiar 
sounds  in  the  midnight  hours  — 
well,  the  building  was  known  to 
harbor  rats. 

The  following  afternoon,  the 
funeral  took  place;  and  the  cof¬ 
fin  was  interred  with  due  cere¬ 
mony  in  the  Warde  family  plot 
in  Greenwood  Cemetery.  Al¬ 
most  a  hundred  of  Warde’s  so¬ 
cial  equals  saw  him  laid  to  rest 
amid  flowers  and  eulogies,  while 
a  hired  choir  sang  “Abide  with 
me,  fast  falls  the  eventide.  .  .  .” 

The  ceremonies,  however, 
were  rudely  marred.  One  of 
those  sudden,  violent  thunder¬ 
storms  that  plague  the  Catskill 
region  descended  with  some 
fury,  just  when  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Denby  reached  his  “Ashes 
to  ashes,  dust  to  dust.”  Rain  de¬ 
scended  in  torrents  and  thunder 
quite  drowned  out  the  service. 
The  mourners,  in  drenched  or- 
andy  and  broadcloth,  sought 
asty  refuge  in  their  automo¬ 
biles  and  watched  from  there, 
through  intermittent  lightning 
flashes,  while  the  coffin  was 
hurriedly  lowered  into  the  grave 
and  tarpaulins  spread  over  the 
excavation  as  a  temporary  shel¬ 
ter.  Filling  in  of  the  soil  would 
have  to  wait  until  the  storm  had 
ended.-  The  bedraggled  cortege 
then  returned  to  town  and  the 
restoration  of  liquid  refresh¬ 
ments.  It  was  a  curiously  sinis¬ 
ter  ending  for  the  event  —  and 
perhaps  an  omen  for  what  was 
come. 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


For  it  was  only  a  couple  of 
hours  later  that  the  great  scan¬ 
dal  broke.  The  storm  had  not 
blown  itself  out  quickly  as 
Catskill  storms  usually  do,  but 
had  settled  to  a  steady  down- 
pom-  that  might  last  indefinitely. 
So  about  four  o’clock,  the  sex¬ 
tons  finally  sallied  forth,  rain- 
coated,  to  begin  filling  in  the 
grave  before  it  accumulated  too 
much  water.  And  they  made  a 
most  shocking  and  mysterious 
discovery.  Wild  telephone  calls 
brought  police  cars  screeching 
to  the  scene,  and  patrolmen  aqd 
gray-clad  Troopers  were  soon 
swarming  all  over  the  cemetery. 

THERE  HAD  apparently 
been  a  case  of  body-snatching 
in  broad  daylight,  and  without 
conceivable  motive!  Persons  un¬ 
known  had  somehow  removed 
Mr.  Warde’s  body  from  the  op¬ 
en  grave  and  made  off  with  it, 
under  cover  of  the  storm.  It  is 
possible  that  in  the  excitement, 
the  lid  of  the  “Eternity  Coffin” 
had  not  been  properly  sealed. 
At  all  events,  it  was  now  stand¬ 
ing  open;  the  inner  glass  lid  had 
been  smashed  and  tne  white  silk 
cushions  beneath  were  quite 
empty.  Of  its  late  occupant 
there  was  no  trace,  except  some 
curious  marks  in  the  turf  where 
something  had  apparently  been 
dragged  away.  There  were  'no 
footprints  or  other  evidence  of 
vandalism.  No  one  had  seen  a 
car  arrive  or  leave,  and  the 
grave  was  at  least  half  a  mile 


from  the  cemetery’s  iron  gates. 

The  whole  thing  baffled  the 
police  completely;  they’d  never 
had  a  case  like  it.  And  despite 
all  efforts  to  keep  it  quiet,  it 
leaked  out  to  the  press.  News¬ 
papers  in  distant  Times  Square 
and  Broadway  were  proclaim¬ 
ing  the  crime  within  an  hour. 
AP  and  UP  dispatches  soon  had 
it  all  over  the  nation,  and  even 
abroad.  It  created  something  of 
a  sensation.  The  morbid  nature 
of  the  snatching,  plus  the  wealth 
of  the  ‘victim’,  combined  to 
make  it  almost  another  Lind¬ 
bergh  case.  Mr.  Thaddeus 
Warde’s  name  suddenly  became 
almost  as  famous,  posthumous¬ 
ly,  as  that  of  a  television  croon¬ 
er,  or  a  hatchet  murderer.  And 
Deyvillkill  itself  was  the  focus 
of  nationwide  attention,  to  the 
horror  of  its  staid  inhabitants. 
Reporters,  investigators,  and  the 
morbidly  curious  descended  on 
the  hapless  community  from  all 
sides,  taxing  its  resources  and 
making  investigation  the  more 
difficult. 

The  entire  State  Police  or¬ 
ganization  was  thrown  in.  to  as¬ 
sist  the  overburdened  local 
force,  and  a  carload  of  trained 
city  detectives  were  rushed 
down  from  New  York  to  help  in 
the  search.  The  whole  end  of 
the  State  was  turned  upside 
down.  Yet,  two  days  went  by 
without  even  a  trace  of  the  miss¬ 
ing  remains  being  found  or  even 
a  clew  as  to  why  they  might 
have  been  abstracted.  A  wild 


The  Life-After-Death 

theory  that  the  body  might  be 
“held  for  ransom”  gradually 
faded  out  as  time  went  on  and 
no  demands  were  made.  Anoth¬ 
er  theory,  that  it  might  have 
been  stolen  for  medical  research 
(which  seemed  fantastic  in 
these  modem  days;  but  the  au¬ 
thorities  were  grasping  at 
straws)  also  petered  out.  Offi¬ 
cialdom  found  itself  at  a  com¬ 
plete  dead  end.  There  was  ab¬ 
solutely  ho  rational  explanation 
of  why  Mr.  Warde’s  body 
should  have  been  taken.  Yet,  it 
was  gone;  and  it  stubbornly  re¬ 
fused  to  turn  up. 

The  rain  was  continuing  all 
this  time  —  a  record  Fall  down¬ 
pour,  toning  roads  to  running 
streams  and  earth  to  quagmire, 
hampering  the  searchers  still 
further.  But  the  harried  police 
could  not  wait  for  the  weather 
to  change;  they  were  under  too 
much  pressure  from  the  influ¬ 
ential  residents  to  get  the  thing 
cleared  up  and  shift  the  unbear¬ 
able  spotlight  of  publicity  away 
from  their  community,  which 
had  never  endured  such  a  hor¬ 
ror  before.  The  hunt  went  on. 

AND,  TO  ADD  to  their  prob¬ 
lems,  the  harried  police  found 
themselves  plagued  by  a  second 
mystery,  one  that  seemed  to 
have  no  conceivable  connection 
with  the  other.  The  desk-ser¬ 
geant  who  took  the  first  call  on 
it,  looked  completely  bewil¬ 
dered. 

"We  ain’t  got  troubles  e- 


Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde  61 

nough!”  he  announced.  “Now 
it’s  alligators!” 

“Alligators?”  the  Superintend¬ 
ent  snapped.  ‘What  are  you 
talking  about?” 

“Fact!  Guy  just  ’phoned  in  to 
say  he  seen  an  alligator  out  on 
the  old  North  Road.  It  was 
crawlin’  along  in  a  ditch  hout 
two  miles  from  the  Cemetery. 
He  passed  it  in  his  car.  He  stop¬ 
ped  an’  went  back  to  look  for  it, 
but  it  had  slithered  off  in  the 
grass.  But  he  swears  it  was  at 
least  six  feet  long!” 

“He’s  crazy!”  His  superior 
frowned.  “There  aren’t  any  alli¬ 
gators  in  New  England.  They 
belong  in  Florda,  thousands  of 
miles  to  the  south!  None  has 
ever  been  seen  in  these  parts, 
certainly  not  one  that  size.  Of 
course,  one  might  have  escaped 
from  a  circus  or  carnival.  And 
that  big,  it  could  certainly  be 
dangerous!” 

“Yeah.”  The  sergeant  yawned. 
“However,  the  way  I  figger  it, 
the  guy  was  plastered!  He 
sounded  like  it  over  the  ’phone.” 

But  alas,  the  explanation  was 
not  that  simple.  In  the  days  that 
followed,  at  least  a  dozen  peo¬ 
ple  reported  seeing  something 
long  and  blackish  and  wetly 
shimmering,  crawling  blindly 
through  the  rain  and  mud  of  the 
old  North  Road.  It  was  glimpsed 
in  car  headlights  at  night  and 
even  in  daylight.  It  was  seen 
splashing  through  flooded  ditch¬ 
es,  slithering  in  tall  grass,  and 
even  crossing  highways.  Once 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


it  was  recorded  as  swimming 
in  a  swollen  mountain  pool. 

All  descriptions  tallied  ’and 
seemed  to  suggest  some  sort  of 
large  reptile.  It  dragged  itself 
along  on  its  belly  with  curious¬ 
ly  stiff  and  fumbling  move¬ 
ments,  head  down  and  should¬ 
ers  humped.  It  was  apparently 
between  five  and  six  feet  in 
length.  It  was  strangely  bold  and 
fearless,  keeping  close  to  paved 
roadways,  and  ignoring  passing 
vehicles.  But  it  always  contrived 
to  slither  off  into  bushes  and 
thickets  when  approached  on 
foot. 

No  one  ever  got  a  close  look 
at  it,  but  it  left  tracks  in  deep 
mud  which  remained  visible  un¬ 
til  the  rain  washed  them  out. 
And  one  of  the  police  officers, 
who  had  been  born  in  Louisiana, 
identified  these  prints  as  dis¬ 
tinctly  “gator-like”.  He  even 
pointed  out  hand-shaped  marks 
that  could  have  been  made  by 
the  forefeet,  and  a  wavy  line  in 
the  rear  that  suggested  the  drag¬ 
ging  tail.  ... 

However,  no  real  search  was 
made  for  the  creature.  The  auth¬ 
orities  were  far  too  busy  to  en¬ 
gage  in  an  alligator-hunt,  along 
with  their  other  troubles.  There 
were  no  reports  of  missing  live¬ 
stock  or  injury  to  anyone;  the 
beast  seemed  harmless,  whatev¬ 
er  it  was.  It  appeared  to  be.  cir¬ 
cling  die  town  itself,  avoiding  it, 
keeping  to  back  lanes  and  al¬ 
leys.  There  was  an  odd  sugges¬ 
tion  of  purpose  in  its  move¬ 


ments.  Though  progressing  on¬ 
ly  a  short  distance  in  a  day,  it 
kept  going,  and  always  in  die 
same  general  direction  —  very 
strange  behavior,  indeed,  for  a 
saurian!  It  was  first  seen  on  the 
cemetery  side  of  the  town,  then 
behind  it,  and  then  on  the  far 
road  heading  toward  the  large 
estates  that  lay  beyond.  It  seem¬ 
ed  only  a  nuisance,  not  an  actu¬ 
al  menace.  The  authoriites  is¬ 
sued  orders  to  their  men  to 
shoot  the  thing  on  sight,  if  they 
should  encounter  it,  and,  in  the 
meantime,  keep  going  on  their 
main  search. 

But  the  “beast’  aroused  much 
comment  and  speculation.  Some 
of  the  visiting  newshawks,  lack¬ 
ing  anything  on  the  Warde  Case 
to  write  about,  cabled  in  lurid 
descriptions  of  it,  enlarging  its 
size  considerably.  One  or  two 
of  the  more  sensational  ones 
even  recalled  the  old  Dutch  le¬ 
gends  of  Deyvill’s  mythical  ‘dra¬ 
gonlike’  monsters,  supposed  to 
have  inhabited  the  Catskills  in 
early  days,  that  had  given  the 
town  its  name.  They  suggested 
that  this  might  be  a  modem, 
dwarfed  survival.  Which  was,  in 
a  sense,  perhaps  nearer  to  the 
truth  than  they,  dreamed.  .  .  . 

FOR  IT  WAS  on  the  evening 
of  September  18th  that  a  third 
mystery  arose  —  one  that  was  to 
provide  at  least  a  partial  ex¬ 
planation  of  the  other  two. 

It  began  around  midnight 
with  a  series  of  wild  telephone 


The  Life-After-Death  ( 

calls  from  Mr.  Gordon  Van  Der 
Vere  in  his  small  tumbledown 
cottage  out  by  the  edge  of  the 
Warde  estate.  Someone,  or  some¬ 
thing,  Mr.  Van  Der  Vere  insist¬ 
ed,  was  trying  to  break  into  his 
house!  He  demanded  that  the 
police  come  out  and  protect  him 
from  it. 

He  had,  he  told  the  desk-ser¬ 
geant,  been  out  for  the  evening 
(he  didn’t  say  where )  and  on  his 
return,  on  foot,  something  had 
come  out  of  the  bushes  and  fol¬ 
lowed  him  up  the  driveway. 
He’d  gotten  into  his  house  safe¬ 
ly  ana  slammed  the  door,  but 
“it”  was  now  beseiging  the 
place.  He  was  curiously  inexpli¬ 
cit  as  to  the  nature  of  his  at¬ 
tacker,  and  indeed,  tended  to 
become  almost  hysterical  when 
pressed  for  details,  or  when  it 
was  suggested  that  someone 
might  be  playing  a  joke  on  him. 
That  the  thing’s  intent  was  hos¬ 
tile  and  lethal  he  seemed  to 
have  no  doubt.  He  spoke  vague¬ 
ly  of  scratchings  and  poundings 
on  the  front  door,  of  attempts 
on  die  windows,  and  even  of 
sounds  indicating  that  it  had 
crawled  up  on  the  roof  and  was 
trying  to  come  down  the  chim¬ 
ney!  He  had,  he  said,  caught 
glimpses  of  his  assailant  in  the 
moonlight,  and  had  even  fired 
at  it  through  the  windows  with 
his  revolver,  but  apparently 
without  result.  He  must  have 
immediate  help,  he  insisted;  his 
life  was  in  danger! 

The  police  were  sympathetic. 


Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde  63 

but  in  no  position  to  comply 
with  his  request.  With  the 
Warde  search  still  in  full  swing, 
and  taxed  far  beyond  their 
small  capacity,  they  could  not 
spare  a  man  to  hold  the  hand  of 
some  drunken  socialite  who  was 
probably  only  panicked  by  some 
prowling  animal!  The  Catskills 
abound  with  all  sorts  of  wild 
life,  despite  close  proximity  to 
the  world’s  largest  city;  they  got 
such  Routine  calls  almost  every 
night.  They  advised  him  to  stay 
indoors,  keep  all  doors  locked, 
and  if  the  creature  tried  to 
break  in,  simply  to  shoot  it.  His 
reply  that  he  fiad  already  shot 
at  it  through  the  windows  and 
was  certain  that  he  had  hit  it, 
but  with  no  visible  effect,  was 
disregarded  as  proof  of  ad¬ 
vanced  intoxication. 

Two  subsequent  appeals,  each 
wilder  and  more  hysterical  than 
the  last,  met  with  a  similar  re¬ 
ception.  They  were  polite  but 
firm;  he  would  have  to  wait. 
Another  call  shortly  before  mid¬ 
night  (made  in  a  sort  of  cawing 
shriek,  and  completely  incoher¬ 
ent)  was  cut  off;  the  desk-ser¬ 
geant  hung  up  on  him.  “That 
guy’s  completely  nuts!”  he 
grunted  in  disgust. 

There  was,  however,  no  pos¬ 
sibility  of  disregarding  the  final 
call,  which  came  in  shortly  be¬ 
fore  midnight.  Mr.  Van  Der 
Vere’s  voice,  though  still  hyster- 
cad,  had  the  tone  of  a  man  who 
has  come  to  a  momentous  de¬ 
cision.  He  wished,  he  said,  to 


64 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


confess  to  the  murder  of  Mr. 
Thaddeus  Warde.  He  demand¬ 
ed  that  the  police  come  and  ar¬ 
rest  him  for  it.  He  had  never 
liked  Warde  —  only  pretended 
to  in  order  to  enjoy  an  affair 
with  his  wife;  and  the  millions 
she  would  inherit  was  the  mo¬ 
tive  for  the  shooting  which  he 
now  deeply  regretted.  (His 
voice  rose  wildly  at  that  point.) 
But  he  was  ready  to  sign  a  full 
confession  once  he  was  locked 
up  and  safe  —  that  was  the  word 
he  used  and  he  accented  it 
heavily  —  in  jail! 

Naturally,  this  produced  im¬ 
mediate  results.  The  Superin¬ 
tendent  and  the  sergeant  were 
in  the  former’s  car  and  racing 
toward  the  scene  in  less  than 
one  minute!  Granted  the  man 
was  drunk,  his  story  made  sense 
and  had  to  be  investigated. 
They  picked  up  a  Trooper  car 
enroute,  a  motorcycle  offcer, 
and  a  carload  of  the  invidious 
reporters,  who  were  cruising  a- 
bout  looking  for  any  develop¬ 
ments.  Quite  a  cavalcade  of  as¬ 
sistance  rolled  up  in  front  of  the 
Van  Der  Vere  cottage  in  almost 
less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  a- 
bout  it. 

Even  so,  they  were  too  late. 
The  place  stood  curiously  silent 
and  deserted-looking  in  the  pale 
autumn  moonlight.  The  lights 
inside  were  all  on  and  blazing 
brightly,  but  no  one  answered 
their  repeated  knocking*. 

“Queer!”  one  of  the  officers 


muttered,  “after  all  that  excite¬ 
ment  .  .  .” 

They  moved  around  to  the 
side  of  the  house  and  discovered 
one  of  the  French  windows 
smashed  and  open,  as  if  some¬ 
thing  had  crashed  through  it 
and  entered  that  way.  Within 
they  found  the  living-room  a 
complete  shambles,  furniture 
overturned,  and  vases  broken, 
as  though  a  terrific  struggle  had 
taken  place.  Mr.  Gordon  Van 
Der  Vere  was  lying  in  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  it,  an  empty  revolver  in 
his  hand,  and  quite  dead. 

There  was  not  a  mark  on  his 
body,  and  his  death  was  offi¬ 
cially  pronounced  as  heart  fail¬ 
ure  —  though  there  were  cer¬ 
tainly  contributing  factors!  For 
one  thing,  lying  quite  near  the 
body  was  what  the  police  first 
thought  was  a  bundle  of  old 
clothes.  But  when  they  turned 
it  over,  they  found  it  was  the 
missing  corpse  of  Mr.  Thaddeus 
Warde!  Still  very  dead  —  but 
with  what  remained  of  its  hands 
almost  touching  Van  Der  Vere’s 
throat  .  .  . 

AS  I  SAID  at  the  beginning, 
the  case  of  Mr.  Thaddeus 
Warde  is  the  only  completley 
authentic  case  of  survival  after 
death  that  modern  history  re¬ 
cords.  There  are  those,  of 
course,  who  will  not  admit  that, 
to  this  day;  who  still  prate 
vaguely  of  persons  unknown 
who  somehow  managed  to 
smuggle  a  prominent  body  out 


The  Life-AfteT-Death  Of  Mr.  Thaddeus  Warde 


65 


of  a  cemetery  in  broad  daylight 
and  keep  it  hidden  during  the 
most  extensive  police  search  in 
Upper  New  York  State’s  whole 
annals.  Who  these  all-knowing 
and  all  powerful  ones  may  have 
been,  of  course,  they  do  not  say. 
Still,  it  is  a  comforting  theory; 
and  I,  for  one,  only  wish  I  could 
believe  it. 

But  there  are  a  few  details 
that  simply  cannot  be  made  to 
square  with  it.  There  was,  for 
one,  the  condition  of  Mr. 
Warde’s  body  when  they  found 
it.  It  was  not  at  all  in  the  shape 
of  one  that  has  merely  been 
kept  somewhere!  Mr.  Grew  and 
his  men,  indeed,  threw  up  their 
hands  at  the  task  of  restoring  it 
and  reburied  it  hastily,  without 
ceremony.  It  was  battered,  it 
was  rain-soaked  and  bedrag¬ 
gled,  and  curiously  worn  away 
in  portions  underneath,  as  if  it 
had  been  dragged  for  miles  over 
asphalt.  The  neat  funeral  cloth¬ 
ing  was  in  rags  and  tatters,  like¬ 
wise,  mostly  underneath.  As  for 
its  hands,  they  were  mere  vesti- 
gal  stumps,  the  flesh  quite  worn 
away  and  not  even  fingers  re¬ 
maining  on  them.  There  were 
bits  of  glass  embedded  all  over 
the  corpse,  and  several  fresh 
bullets  were  in  it  —  bullets 
which  the  ballistics  experts 
matched  exactly  with  Van  Der 
Vere’s  emptied  revolver. 

In  short,  that  body  was  in 
precisely  the  condition  it  would 
have  been  in  had  it  somehow 


managed  to  escape  from  its  cof¬ 
fin,  crawl  out  of  its  own  grave, 
and  somehow  drag  itself  over 
the  dozen  or  more  miles  that 
separated  it  from  its  goal;  tak¬ 
ing  days  and  nights  in  the  jour¬ 
ney;  seen  by  many  people  along 
the  way  but  mistaken  for  an 
animal,  (which  it  must  have 
been,  of  course,  or  even  lower) 
all  semblance  of  humanity  de¬ 
parted.  Blind,  crawling,  unable 
to  stand  erect  or  walk  —  not 
even  conscious,  for  there  was  no 
brain  —  yet  still  moving,  power¬ 
ed  by  Something,  perhaps  only 
an  urge,  like  that  of  a  homing 
pigeon  —  with  the  exception,  of 
course,  that  a  homing  pigeon 
happens  to  be  alive!  And  reach¬ 
ing  the  cottage,  breaking  into  it, 
ignoring  bullets  and  resistance 
to  pull  down  the  unsuspected 
one  who  had  betrayed  and  inur- 
derd  him.  I  am  not  offering  this 
as  an  explanation,  you  under¬ 
stand.  I  am  simply  stating  the 
facts  which  are  on  record  and 
can  be  easily  verified.  You  may 
draw  your  own  conclusion. 

But  there  is  one  other  small 
detail  which  seems  to  confirm 
it.  For  it  was  observed  by  all 
when  they  turned  him  over;  that 
on  what  remained  of  Mr. 
Warde’s  face,  there  was  now  a 
singularly  broad,  malignant,  and 
wholly  triumphant  smile! 

Though  that,  perhaps,  may 
have  been  only  because  a  cou¬ 
ple  of  Mr.  Grew’s  steel  clips 
seemed  somehow  to  have  work¬ 
ed  loose. 


^emiftme  fraction 

by  jbaviJ  rinneff 


David  Grinnell’s  first  story,  Top  Secret,  appeared  in  1950;  and  while 
he  has  written  some  novels  since  then,  the  majority  of  his  appearances 
have  been  with  brief,  sardonic  tales,  often  exploring  little-known  sci¬ 
entific  theories  or  crochets. 


YOU  KNOW,  just  sitting  a- 
round  here  in  Paris  in  the 
springtime,  brings  back  so  many 
old  memories,  Jack,  that  I’m 
glad  you  showed  up.  Isn’t  there 
some  old  saying  that  if  you  sit 
here  at  this  corner,  sipping  an 
aperitif,  that  by  and  by  the 
whole  world  will  pass  by?  So 
you’re  proof  of  it  —  an  old  bud¬ 
dy  from  my  company  I  hadn’t 
seen  in  —  gosh,  how  many  years 
has  it  been  since  we  were  mus¬ 
tered  out? 

Anyway,  this  is  a  great  place 
to  sit  and  ogle  the  girls.  Paris 
has  changed  a  bit,  but  these  lit¬ 
tle  French  chicks,  they’re  still  a 


delight  to  the  eye.  So  feminine. 
Makes  me  wonder  sometimes 
about  Weininger’s  theory. 

Weininger?  You  never  heard 
of  him?  Well,  I  guess  that’s  not 
surprising,  considering  he  was  a 
boy  genius  who  died  in  his  early 
twenties  after  writing  just  one 
great  thesis.  He  was  the  fellow 
who  brought  out  the  idea  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  one  hun¬ 
dred  per  cent  male  and  a  hun¬ 
dred  per  cent  female.  He  said 
every  person  has  something  of 
the  opposite  sex  in  him.  Every 
man  has  maybe  ten  or  twenty 
per  cent  woman  in  him  and 
every  woman  has  ten  or  twenty 


per  cent  man.  Some  people  have 
more,  some  have  less,  but  we 
all  have  some. 

I  know,  you  don’t  believe  it 
at  first.  Seems  to  insult  your 
manhood,  but  think  about  it.  I 
don’t  really  think  that  a  person 
who  was  100%  masculine  could 
even  stand  to  be  around  a  wom¬ 
an.  Everything  she  did  would 
be  incomprehensible  and  annoy¬ 
ing.  Acutely  irritating.  No,  I 
think  it’s  pretty  obvious  when 
you  ponder  it.  Most  psycholo¬ 
gists  today  agree  the  theory  is 
valid. 

Oh,  I  know  —  you  always 
were  -a  skeptic.  Prove  it?  Well 
...  I  can,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 
Sure,  I  can.  Hold  on  a  minute, 
order  another  cognac  and  I’ll  see 
if  I  can  refresh  your  memory. 

Remember  Louis  Tyler  who 
used  to  be  in  our  outfit  back 
when  we  were  first  in  training? 
Sure,  you  do.  I  thought  you 
would:  Rather  slight,  fair-haired 
boy,  quiet  but  real  clever.  He 
used  to  hang  out  with  us,  you 
and  me  and  one  or  two  others. 
Then  he  was  shifted  from  our 
company  and  sent  to  some  sort 
of  hush-hush  OSS  school.  He 
spoke  French  like  a  native  — 
he’d  been  raised  here  as  a  boy 
and  they  were  going  to  use  him 
for  some  pre-D-Day  operations. 

I  saw  him  several  times  in 
England  before  we  went  in  — 
we  were  still  the  best  of  friends. 
He’d  get  off  on  a  leave  once  in 
a  while,  look  me  up  and  I’d 
wangle  a  pass  for  the  evening. 


We’d  make  a  night  of  it.  He  was 
actually  a  pretty  lonely  guy,  I 
guess.  I  learned  a  lot  about  him. 
His  mother  had  been  in  France 
when  the  Nazis  came  in  —  he 
had  heard  she  was  dead  accord¬ 
ing  to  some  underground  source 
in  the  OSS  offices.  His  father  — 
divorced  or  something.  He  never 
mentioned  him.  Hated  him,  I 
think. 

LOUIS  USED  TO  confide 
some  of  his  worries  to  me,  but 
he  was  a  nice  guy.  We  used  to 
go  wenching  together  in  Lon¬ 
don  and  he  had  a  way  with  the 
gals.  Maybe  it’s  that  French 
upbringing,  or  maybe  he  sort  of 
understood  them  better  than 
most,  but  he  sure  could  knock 
’em  dead. 

Anyway,  he  was  dropped  by 
parachute  into  France  a  few 
weeks  before  the  invasion.  I 
don’t  know  his  exact  mission, 
but  it  was  pretty  important.  I 
believe  he  knew  the  exact  dates 
and  places  of  the  landings  —  not 
the  false  information  that  had 
been  let  slip,  but  the  real  dope. 
It  was  vital  for  certain  people 
in  the  French  Underground  to 
know  them.  Louis  was  one  of 
the  men  chosen  to  tell  them. 

I  saw  him  before  he  jumped. 
He  couldn’t  tell  me  his  mission 
—  what  I  know  I  found  out  after 
the  war  —  but  I  knew  he  was 
set  to  go  because  he  was  ner¬ 
vous.  Louis  was  a  brave  guy  — 
but  he  was  a  little  nervous  that 


67 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


night.  Who  wouldn’t  be?  He 
asked  me  then  did  I  mind  the 
fact  that  he’d  named  me  his  heir 
in  case  he  never  came  back? 
He’d  nobody  else  he  really  trust¬ 
ed.  I  said,  “Heck,  you’ll  be  back. 
He  shrugged  .  .  .  said  if  he  did¬ 
n’t,  would  I  at  least  try  to  find 
out  what  happened  to  him,  may¬ 
be  put  a  marker  on  his  grave. 
Louis  was  sort  of  religious  and 
a  very  sincere  guy. 

So  when  we  shook  hands  that 
night  in  London,  I  said,  “Don’t 
worry.  I  never  let  a  friend 
down.”  He  looked  me  in  the 
eye  and  said,  “I  trust  you.” 

D-Day  came  and  went.  My 
outfit  was  in  it,  and  I’m  not  talk¬ 
ing  about  it  because  you  were 
there  alongside  me,  Jack,  and 
you  know  what  it  was  like.  Hell, 
sheer  hell. 

But  now  think,  Jack.  Remem¬ 
ber  a  certain  town  we  went 
through  on  our  way  to  Paris  — 
a  small  village,  let’s  see  —  Bois 
le  Chateau,  no,  that’s  not  quite 
right,  well,  something  like  that. 
And  do  you  remember  that  I 
was  on  recon  on  our  front  and 
went  into  that  village  a  bit 
ahead  of  the  rest  of  the  compa¬ 
ny.  The  Germans  had  pulled  out 
fortunately,  or  maybe  I  would¬ 
n’t  be  here  to  tell  the  tale. 

Let  me  explain  something  you 
don’t  know  and  didn’t  know 
then.  I  was  attached  to  Intelli¬ 
gence  —  and  I  had  a  private 
mission  to  perform.  We  had 
heard  that  the  Nazis  had  some 
of  our  OSS  men  here  —  ’chutists 


they’d  captured  and  had  been 
interrogating  at  the  old  chateau 
that  gave  the  town  its  name.  I 
was  supposed  to  get  there  first, 
if  I  could,  find  out  what  hap¬ 
pened,  maybe  get  the  dope  or 
the  papers  or  whatnot  before 
the  rest  of  the  company  came 
along. 

Sd  I  go  there.  The  Germans 
had  left,  the  villagers  had  gone 
into  hiding,  and  I  got  into  the 
chateau  with  my  sidekicks 
covering  me  with  Garands. 

It  was  the  place,  all  right.  We 
found  several  of  our  men  down 
in  the  cellar,  in  dungeons  left 
over  from  the  ancient  times. 
Two  were  dead  —  they’d  tried  to 
get  information  from  them  the 
crude  way  and  failed.  I  won’t  go 
into  the  details.  You’ve  read  a- 
bout  Gestapo  methods  —  they’re 
just  what  they  said  they  were, 
and  worse. 

A  COUPLE  more  were  in¬ 
sane.  It  seems  they’d  had  a  new 
technique  they  were  trying  out, 
a  really  vicious  thing  —  and  I 
can  say  it  didn’t  succeed  in  spite 
of  everything.  Our  men  were 
gohd  —  they  never  talked. 

This  device  —  it  had  been 
invented  very  shortly  before  and 
they  were  testing  it  on  this 
batch  of  ’chutists  because  they 
guessed  somebody  among  them 
might  know  the  date  of  the 
coming  attack.  They  were  right 
—  but  they  didn’t  know  the 
stamina  of  our  fellows. 

It  seems  they  first  drugged 


The  Feminine  Fraction 


their  victim,  a  sort  of  hypnotic 
type  of  drug  that  can  cause  per¬ 
manent  damage,  the  splitting  of 
personality,  schizophrenia,  de¬ 
mentia,  death.  Under  the  drug, 
they  focussed  some  sort  of  elec¬ 
tric  current  and  pressure  that 
loaded  the  victim  with  electrici¬ 
ty  —  painful,  which  was  part  of 
it,  and  having  a  terrible  effect 
on  the  brain  and  nervous  sys¬ 
tem,  as  well  as  the  whole  body 
—  and  that  was  another  part  of 
it. 

The  idea  was  to  shatter  his 
personality  so  thoroughly  that 
everything  hidden  in  the  mind 
would  be  fragmented,  complete¬ 
ly  tom  apart  from  everything 
else.  It  literally  shredded,  splin¬ 
tered  the  ego  and  left  the  mem¬ 
ories  flying  wide  open  ...  At 
least  that  was  the  theory.  The 
first  man  we  found  alive  was 
hopelessly  insane,  terribly  burn¬ 
ed,  a  quivering  wreck. 

He  didn’t  live  long.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  for  him. 

I  found  the  Gestapo’s  lists, 
and  Louis  Tyler’s  name  was  on 
it.  He  was  down  there  some¬ 
where,  in  the  dungeons,  a  victim 
of  the  new  technique. 

We  found  a  couple  more  guys 
first,  also  out  of  their  minds,  dy¬ 
ing.  One  was  badly  twisted  in 
body,  sort  of  tom  apart,  strange¬ 
ly  burned  —  melted  is  how  I’d 
describe  his  appearance.  I  don’t 
like  to  think  about  it. 

I  found  the  cell  where  Louis 
was  supposed  to  be.  I  got  it 


open  —  the  Nazis  had  left  only 
a  few  hours  before. 

No,  I  didn’t  find  Louis.  Louis 
was  gone;  well,  90  per  cent  of 
him  was  gone.  There  is  no  such 
person.  I  found  something  in  that 
cell.  Crouching  in  the  corner 
was  a  little  girl.  Just  a  little  girl, 
blondish,  looking  about  five 
years  old,  whimpering,  wearing 
part  of  a  man’s  shirt  —  a  French 
workman’s  blue  blouse  like  Lou¬ 
is  would,  have  worn  when  he 
’chuted  in. 

I  took  that  little  girl  with  me. 
She  knew  me,  came  running  to 
me  when  she  saw  me.  She  took 
my  hand  and  she  trusted  me.  I 
took  her  back  with  me  to  the 
town  and  the  company. 

Of  course,  I  didn’t  take  her 
through  the  war.  I  had  to  turn 
her  over  to  the  folks  who  took 
care  of  the  war  orphans,  but  I 
put  my  claim  on  her.  I  adopted 
her,  because  nobody  else  ever 
claimed  her.  Officially  adopted 
her.  She’s  been  raised  in  France 
at  my  expense  and  on  the  mon¬ 
ey  from  Louis  Tyler’s  G.I.  insur¬ 
ance.  Private  schools,  foster 
homes,  all  that  —  after  all,  I’m 
not  married  and  what  was  I  go¬ 
ing  to  do  with  a  little  girl  tug¬ 
ging  at  my  heels  back  in  the 
States? 

Anyway,  I  come  to  France 
every  year  and  meet  her  and  act 
like  a  father  to  her.  She’s  a  dear 
—  engaged  now  and  wanted  me 
to  meet  her  boy  friend  and  give 
my  approval.  I’m  waiting  for 


70 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


her  now.  She’s  going  to  meet  me 
here.  , 

Who  was  she  really?  Well,  I 
don’t  know.  I  know  that  story 
about  Louis  Tyler  sounds  sort 
of  wild  —  and,  sure  that’s  all 
conjecture  about  Weininger.  So 
maybe  ten  per  cent  of  any  man 
is  feminine.  I  guess  that  held 
true  for  Louis,  like  anyone  else. 
I  like  to  kid  myself  into  thinking 
so. 

Oh,  here  she  is.  See  that  pret¬ 
ty  blonde  coming  across  the 
square?  The  one  with  the  cute 
pill  box  hat  and  the  long  hair. 


Some  figure,  eh?  Ahh,  these 
Paris  cuties.  Mmmm. 

“Hello,  darling,  my  you’re 
looking  good.  Oh,  may  I  intro¬ 
duce  an  old  Army  buddy.  Oh, 
you  know  him,  remembered  him 
from  back  when.  Sure,  you’re 
right,  darling,  this  is  Jack  Old¬ 
field.  Some  things  come  back  to 
you  .  .  . 

“Jack,  don’t  stand  there  gap¬ 
ing.  For  gosh  sake,  pull  yourself 
together.  May  I  introduce  my 
adopted  daughter,  Louise?” 


In  our  May  issue,  we  asked  if  you,  the  readers,  would 
like  to  see  H.  P.  Lovecraft’s  famous  essay,  Supernatural 
Horror  in  Literature  run  here,  explaining  that,  due  to 
the  length,  it  would  have  to  be  presented  in  installments. 

This  is  being  written  about  a  month  later  than  the 
material  presented  in  this  issue’s  “It  Says  Here”.  So  far, 
the  votes  have  been  something  more  than  two  to  one  in 
favor.  However,  we  need  a  great  many  more  returns 
from  you  on  this  question  before  we  can  reach  a  fan- 
decision.  If  you  have  not  expressed  yourself,  won’t  you 
let  us  know  how  you  feel  on  this  question? 


*2)r.  clieidecfcjer  4 
Experiment 

Lu  f/a  thaniei  w thorn  e 


In  his  love  for  the  past  and  the  free  play  of  his  imagination  within 
self-imposed  bounds,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1804-1864)  makes  one 
think  of  II.  P.  Lovecraft,  but  we  cannot  push  the  resemblance  any 
farther,  except  perhaps  for  a  common  love  of  symbolism.  For  although 
in  his  own  life  and  personal  philosophy,  Lovecraft  was  no  less  the 
ethical  gentleman  than  Hawthorne,  you  do  not  find  very  much  moral¬ 
izing  in  HPL’s  fiction,  while  Hawthorne’s  tales  are  permeated  by 
Puritanism  and  ethicism.  Highly  imaginative  as  his  short  stories  are, 
filled  with  the  stuff  of  fantasy  and  weird  fiction,  it  would  have  been 
unthinkable  for  him  to  write  such  a  tale  for  its  own  sake;  all  must  lead 
up  to  the  moral  instruction  which  is  the  reason  for  the  narrative. 
Despite  this,  the  Twice-Told  Tales  (1837)  retain  their  initial  charm, 
and  the  moral  is  bearable  for  the  sake  of  a  well-told  story. 


THAT  VERY  singular  man, 
old  Dr.  Heidegger,  once  invited 
four  venerable  friends  to  meet 
him  in  his  study.  There  were 
three  white-bearded  gentlemen, 
Mr.  Medboum,  Colonel  Killi- 
grew,  and  Mr.  Gascoigne,  and  a 
withered  gentlewoman,  whose 
name  was  the  Widow  Wycherly. 
They  were  all  melancholy  old 
creatures,  who  had  been  unfor¬ 
tunate  in  life,  and  whose  great¬ 
est  misfortune  it  was  that  they 


were  not  long  ago  in  their 
graves. 

Mr.  Medboume,  in  the  vigor 
of  his  age,  had  been  a  prosper¬ 
ous  merchant,  and  had  lost  his 
all  by  a  frantic  speculation,  and 
was  now  little  better  than  a 
mendicant.  Colonel  Killigrew 
had  wasted  his  best  years,  and 
his  health  and  substance,  in  the 
pursuit  of  sinful  pleasures, 
which  had  given  birth  to  a 
brood  of  pains,  such  as  the  gout. 


71 


72 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


and  divers  other  torments  of  soul 
and  body.  Mr.  Gascoigne  was  a 
ruined  politician,  a  man  of  evil 
fame,  or  at  least  had  been  so, 
till  time  had  buried  him  from 
the  knowledge  of  the  present 
generation,  and  made  him  ob¬ 
scure  instead  of  infamous.  As 
for  the  Widow  Wycherly,  tradi¬ 
tion  tells  us  that  she  was  a  great 
beauty  in  her  day;  but,  for  a 
long  while  past,  she  had  lived 
in  deep  seclusion,  on  account  of 
certain  scandalous  stories,  which 
had  prejudiced  the  gentry  of 
the  town  against  her.  It  is  a  cir¬ 
cumstance  worth  mentioning, 
that  each  of  these  three  old  gen¬ 
tlemen,  Mr.  Medboume,  Colo¬ 
nel  Kilhgrew,  and  Mr.  Gascoigne 
were  early  lovers  of  the  Widow 
Wycherly,  and  had  once  been 
on  the  point  of  cutting  each  oth¬ 
er’s  throats  for  her  sake.  And, 
before  proceeding  farther,  I  will 
merely  hint,  that  Dr.  Heidegger 
and  all  his  four  guests  were 
sometimes  thought  to  be  a  little 
beside  themselves;  as  is  not  un- 
frequently  the  case  with  old 
people,  when  worried  either  by 
present  troubles  or  woeful  recol¬ 
lections. 

“My  dear  old  friends,”  said 
Dr.  Heidegger,  motioning  them 
to  be  seated,  "I  am  desirous  of 
your  assistance  in  one  of  those 
little  experiments  with  which  I 
amuse  myself  here  in  my  study.” 

If  all  stories  were  true.  Dr. 
Heidegger’s  study  must  have 
been  a  very  curious  place.  It 
was  a  dim,  old-fashioned  cham¬ 


ber,  festooned  with  cobwebs 
and  besprinkled  with  antique 
dust.  Around  the  walls  stood 
several  oaken  bookcases,  the 
lower  shelves  of  which  were  fill¬ 
ed  with  rows  of  gigantic  folios 
and  black-letter  quartos,  and  the 
upper  with  little  parchment-cov¬ 
ered  duodecimos.  Over  the  cen¬ 
tral  bookcase  was  a  bronze  bust 
of  Hippocrates,  with  which,  ac¬ 
cording  to  some  authorities,  Dr. 
Heidegger  was  aocustomed  to 
hold  consultations,  in  all  diffi¬ 
cult  cases  of  his  practice.  In  the 
obscurest  comer  of  the  room 
stood  a  tall  and  narrow  oaken 
closet,  with  its  door  ajar,  with¬ 
in  which  doubtfully  appeared  a 
skeleton.  Between  two  of  the 
bookcases  hung  a  looking-glass, 
presenting  its  high  and  dusty 

Slate  within  a  tarnished  gilt 
•ame.  Among  many  wonderful 
stories  related  of  this  mirror,  it 
was  fabled  that  the  spirits  of  all 
the  doctor’s  deceased  patients 
dwelt  within  its  verge,  and 
would  stare  him  in  the  face 
whenever  he  looked  thither¬ 
ward. 

The  opposite  side  of  the 
chamber  was  ornamented  with 
the  full-length  portrait  of  a 
young  lady,  arrayed  in  the  fad¬ 
ed  magnificence  of  silk,  satin, 
and  brocade,  and  with  a  visage 
as  faded  as  her  dress.  Above 
half  a  century  ago,  Dr.  Heideg¬ 
ger  had  been  on  the  point  of 
marriage  with  this  young  lady; 
but,  being  affected  with  some 
slight  disorder,  she  had  swal- 


Dr.  Heidegger’s  Experiment  73 


lowed  one  of  her  lover’s  pre¬ 
scriptions,  and  died  on  the  brid¬ 
al  evening.  The  greatest  curiosi¬ 
ty  of  the  study  remains  to  be 
mentioned;  it  was  a  ponderous 
folio  volume,  bound  in  black 
leather,  with  massive  silver 
clasps.  There  were  no  letters  on 
the  back,  and  nobody  could  tell 
the  title  of  the  book.  But  it  was 
well  known  to  be  a  book  of  ma¬ 
gic;  and  once,  when  a  chamber¬ 
maid  had  lifted  it,  merely  to 
brush  away  the  dust,  the  skele¬ 
ton  had  rattled  in  its  closet,  the 
picture  of  the  young  lady  had 
stepped  one  foot  upon  the  floor, 
and  several  ghastly  faces  had 
peeped  forth  from  the  mirror; 
while  the  brazen  head  of  Hippo¬ 
crates  frowned,  and  said,  “For¬ 
bear!” 

SUCH  WAS  Dr.  Heidegger’s 
study.  On  the  summer  afternoon 
of  our  tale,  a  small  round  table, 
as  black  as  ebony,  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  sustaining  a 
cut-glass  vase,  of  beautiful  form 
and  elaborate  workmanship.  The 
sunshine  came  through  the  win¬ 
dow,  between  the  heavy  festoons 
of  two  faded  damask  curtains, 
and  fell  directly  across  this  vase; 
so  that  a  mild  splendor  was  re¬ 
flected  from  it  on  the  ashen  vi¬ 
sages  of  the  five  old  people  who 
sat  around.  Four  champaene- 
glasses  were  also  on  the  table. 

“Mv  dear  friends,”  repeated 
Dr.  Heideecer,  “mav  I  reckon 
on  your  aid  in  performing  an 


exceedingly  curious  experi¬ 
ment?” 

Now  Dr.  Heidegger  was  a 
very  strange  o  1  d  gentleman 
whose  eccentricity  had  become 
the  nucleus  for  a  thousand  fan¬ 
tastic  stories.  Some  of  these  fa¬ 
bles,  to  my  shame  be  it  spoken, 
might  possibly  be  traced  back 
to  mine  own  veracious  self;  and 
if  any  passages  of  the  present 
tale  should  startle  the  reader’s 
faith,  I  must  be  content  to  bear 
the  stigma  of  a  fiction-monger. 

When  the  doctor’s  four  guests 
heard  him  talk  of  his  proposed 
experiment,  they  anticipated 
nothing  more  wonderful  than 
the  murder  of  a  mouse  in  an  air- 
pump,  or  the  examination  of  a 
cobweb  by  the  microscope,  or 
some  similar  nonsense,  with 
which  he  was  constantly  in  the 
habit  of  pestering  his  intimates. 
But  without  waiting  for  a  reply, 
Dr.  Heidegger  hobbled  across 
the  chamber,  and  returned  with 
the  same  ponderous  folio,  bound 
in  black  leather,  which  common 
report  affirmed  to  be  a  book  of 
magic.  Undoing  the  silver  clasps, 
he  opened  the  volume,  and  took 
from  among  its  black-letter  pag¬ 
es  a  rose,  or  what  was  once  a 
rose,  though  now  the  green 
leaves  and  crimson  petals  had 
assumed  one  brownish  hue,  and 
the  ancient  flower  seemed  ready 
to  crumble  to  dust  in  the  doc¬ 
tor’s  hands. 

“This  rose,”  said  Dr.  Heideg¬ 
ger.  with  a  sigh,  “this  same  with¬ 
ered  and  crumbling  flower,  bios- 


74 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


somed  five-and-fifty  years  ago. 
It  was  given  me  by  Sylvia  Ward, 
whose  portrait  hangs  yo'nder; 
and  I  meant  to  wear  it  in  my 
bosom  at  our  wedding.  Five- 
and-fifty  years  it  has  been  trea¬ 
sured  between  the  leaves  of  this 
old  volume.  Now,  would  you 
deem  it  possible  that  this  rose 
of  half  a  century  could  ever 
bloom  again?” 

“Nonsense!”  said  the  Widow 
Wycherly,  with  a  peevish  toss  of 
her  head.  “You  might  as  well 
ask  whether  an  old  woman’s 
wrinkled  face  could  ever  bloom 
again.” 

“See!”  answered  Dr.  Heideg¬ 
ger. 

He  uncovered  the  vase,  and 
threw  the  faded  rose  into  the 
water  which  it  contained.  At 
first,  it  lay  lightly  on  the  surface 
of  the  fluid,  appearing  to  im¬ 
bibe  none  of  its  moisture.  Soon, 
however,  a  singular  change  be¬ 
gan  to  be  visible.  The  crushed 
and  dried  petals  stirred,  and  as¬ 
sumed  a  deepening  tinge  of 
crimson,  as  if  the  the  flower 
were  reviving  from  a  deathlike 
slumber;  the  slender  stalk  and 
twigs  of  foliage  became  green; 
and  there  was  the  rose  of  half  a 
century,  looking  as  fresh  as 
when  Sylvia  Ward  had  first  giv¬ 
en  it  to  her  lover.  It  was  scarcely 
full-blown;  for  some  of  its  deli¬ 
cate  red  leaves  curled  modestly 
around  its  moist  bloom,  within 
which  two  or  three  dewdrops 
were  sparkling. 

“That  is  certainly  a  very  pret¬ 


ty  deception,”  said  the  doctor’s 
friends;  carelessly,  however,  for 
they  had  witnessed  greater  mir¬ 
acles  at  a  conjuror’s  show;  “pray 
how  was  it  effected?” 

“Did  you  never  hear  of  the 
‘Fountain  of  Youth,’  ”  asked  Dr. 
Heidegger,  “which  Ponce  de  Le¬ 
on,  the  Spanish  adventurer, 
went  in  search  of,  two  or  three 
centuries  ago?” 

“But  did  Ponce  de  Leon  ever 
find  it?”  said  the  Widow  Wy¬ 
cherly. 

“No,”  answered  Dr.  Heideg¬ 
ger,  “for  he  never  sought  it  in 
the  right  place.  The  famous 
Fountain  of  Youth,  if  I  am  right¬ 
ly  informed,  is  situated  in  the 
southern  part  of  the  Floridian 
peninsula,  not  far  from  Lake 
Macao.  Its  source  is  oversha¬ 
dowed  by  several  gigantic  mag¬ 
nolias,  which,  though  number¬ 
less  centuries  old,  have  been 
kept  as  fresh  as  violets,  by  the 
virtues  of  this  wonderful  water. 
An  acquaintance  of  mine,  know¬ 
ing  my  curiosity  in  such  matters, 
has  sent  me  what  you  see  in  the 
vase.” 

“Ahem!”  said  Colonel  Killi- 
grew,  who  believed  not  a  word 
of  the  doctor’s  story;  “and  what 
may  be  the  effect  of  this  fluid 
on  the  human  frame?” 

“You  shall  judge  for  yourself, 
my  dear  Colonel,”  replied  Dr. 
Heidegger;  “and  all  of  you,  my 
respected  friends,  are  welcome 
to  so  much  of  this  admirable 
fluid  as  may  restore  to  you  the 
bloom  of  youth.  For  my  own 


Dr.  Heidegger’s  Experiment  75 


part,  having  had  much  trouble 
in  growing  old,  I  am  in  no  hur¬ 
ry  to  grow  young  again.  With 
your  permission,  therefore,  I 
will  merely  watch  the  progress 
of  the  experiment.” 

WHILE  HE  spoke,  Dr.  Heid¬ 
egger  had  been  filling  the  four 
champagne-glasses  with  the 
water  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth. 
It  was  apparently  impregnated 
with  an  effervescent  gas,  for  lit¬ 
tle  bubbles  were  continually 
ascending  from  the  depths  of 
the  glasses,  and  bursting  in  sil¬ 
very  spray  at  the  surface.  As  the 
liquor  diffused  a  pleasant  per¬ 
fume,  the  old  people  doubted 
not  that  it  possessed  cordial  and 
comfortable  properties;  and, 
though  utter  skeptics  as  to  its 
rejuvenescent  power,  they  were 
inclined  to  swallow  it  at  once. 
But  Dr.  Heidegger  besought 
them  to  stay  a  moment. 

“Before  you  drink,  my  re¬ 
spectable  old  friends,”  said  he, 
“it  would  be  well  that,  with  the 
experience  of  a  lifetime  to  direct 
you,  you  should  draw  up  a  few 
general  rules  for  your  guidance, 
in  passing  a  second  time 
through  the  perils  of  youth. 
Think  what  a  sin  and  shame  it 
would  be,  if,  with  your  peculiar 
advantages,  you  should  not  be¬ 
come  patterns  of  virtue  and  wis¬ 
dom  to  all  the  young  people  of 
the  age.” 

The  doctor’s  four  venerable 
friends  made  him  no  answer, 
except  by  a  feeble  and  tremu¬ 


lous  laugh;  so  very  ridiculous 
was  the  idea,  that,  knowing  how 
closely  repentance  treads  be¬ 
hind  the  steps  of  error,  they 
should  ever  go  astray  again. 

“Drink,  then,”  said  the  doctor, 
bowing.  “I  rejoice  that  I  have  so 
well  selected  the  subjects  of  my 
experiment.” 

With  palsied  hands,  they 
raised  the  glasses  to  their  lips. 
The  liquor,  if  it  really  possessed 
such  vjrtues  as  Dr.  Heidegger 
imputed  to  it,  could  not  have, 
been  bestowed  on  four  human 
beings  who  needed  it  more 
woefully.  They  looked  as  if  they 
had  never  known  what  youth  or 
pleasure  was,  but  had  been  the 
offspring  of  nature’s  dotage,  and 
always  the  gray,  decrepit,  sap¬ 
less,  miserable  creatures  who 
now  sat  stooping  round  the  doc¬ 
tor’s  table,  without  life  enough 
in  their  souls  or  bodies  to  be  an¬ 
imated  even  by  the  prospect  of 
growing  young  again.  They 
drank  off  the  water,  and  re¬ 
placed  their  glasses  on  the  table. 

ASSUREDLY  THERE  was 
an  almost  immediate  improve¬ 
ment  in  the  aspect  of  the  party, 
not  unlike  what  might  have 
been  produced  by  a  glass  of 
generous  wine,  together  with  a 
sudden  glow  of  cheerful  sun¬ 
shine,  brightening  over  all  then- 
visages  at  once.  There  was  a 
healthful  suffusion  on  their 
cheeks,  instead  of  the  ashen  hue 
that  had  made  them  look  so 
corpselike.  They  gazed  at  one 


76 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


another,  and  fancied  that  some 
magic  power  had  really  begun 
to  smooth  away  the  deep  and 
sad  inscriptions  which  Father 
Time  had  been  so  long  engrav¬ 
ing  on  their  brows.  The  Widow 
Wycherly  adjusted  her  cap,  for 
she  felt  almost  like  a  woman 
again. 

“Give  us  more  of  this  won¬ 
drous  water!”  cried  they,  eager¬ 
ly.  “We  are  younger  —  but  we 
are  still  too  old!  Quick  —  give 
us  more!” 

“Patience,  patience!”  quoth 
Dr.  Heidegger,  who  sat  watch¬ 
ing  the  experiment,  with  philo¬ 
sophic  coolness.  “You  have  been 
a  long  time  growing  old.  Surely, 
you  might  be  content  to  grow 
young  in  half  an  hour!  But  the 
water  is  at  your  service.” 

Again  he  filled  their  glasses 
with  the  liquor  of  youth,  enough 
of  which  still  remained  in  the 
vase  to  turn  half  the  old  people 
in  the  city  to  the  age  of  their 
own  grandchildren.  While  the 
bubbles  were  yet  sparkling  on 
the  brim,  the  doctor’s  four 
guests  snatched  their  glasses 
from  the  table,  and  swallowed 
the  contents  at  a  single  gulp. 
Was  it  delusion?  Even  while  the 
draft  was  passing  down  their 
throats,  it  seemed  to  have 
wrought  a  change  on  their 
whole  systems.  Their  eyes  grew 
clear  and  bright;  a  dark  shade 
deepened  among  their  silvery 
locks;  they  sat  around  the  table 
three  gentlemen  of  middle  age. 


and  a  woman,  hardly  beyond 
her  buxom  prime. 

“My  dear  widow,  you  are 
charming!”  cried  Colonel  Killi- 
grew,  whose  eyes  had  been 
fixed  upon  her  face,  while  the 
shadows  of  age  were  flitting 
from,  it  like  darkness  from  the 
crimson  daybreak. 

The  fair  widow  knew,  of  old, 
that  Colonel  Killigrew’s  compli¬ 
ments  were  not  always  mea¬ 
sured  by  sober  truth;  so  she 
started  up  and  ran  to  the  mir¬ 
ror,  still  dreading  that  the  ugly 
visage  of  an  old  woman  would 
meet  her  gaze.  Meanwhile,  the 
three  gentlemen  behaved  in  such 
a  manner,  as  proved  that  the  wa¬ 
ter  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth 
possessed  some  intoxicating 
qualities;  unless,  indeed,  their 
exhilaration  of  spirits  were 
merely  a  lightsome  dizziness, 
caused  by  the  sudden  removal 
of  the  weight,  of  years. 

Mr.  Gascoigne’s  mind  seemed 
to  run  on  political  topics,  but 
whether  relating  to  the  past, 
present,  or  future,  could  not  eas¬ 
ily  be  determined,  since  the 
same  ideas  and  phrases  have 
been  in  vogue  these  fiftv  years. 
Now  he  rattled  forth  full-throat¬ 
ed  sentences  about  patriotism, 
national  glory,  and  the  people’s 
right;  now  he  muttered  some 
perilous  stuff  or  other,  in  a  sly 
and  doubtful  whisper,  so  cau¬ 
tiously  that  even  his  own  con¬ 
science  could  scarcely  catch  the 
secret;  and  now,  again,  he  spoke 
in  measured  accents,  and  a  deep- 


77 


Dr.  Heidegger’s  Experiment 


ly  deferential  tone,  as  if  a  royal 
ear  were  listening  to  his  well- 
turned  periods.  Colonel  Killi- 
grew  all  this  time  had  been  troll¬ 
ing  forth  a  jolly  bottle-song,  and 
ringing  his  glass  in  symphony 
with  the  chorus,  while  his  eyes 
wandered  toward  the  buxom  fi¬ 
gure  of  the  Widow  Wycherly. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
Mr.  Medboume  was  involved 
in  a  calculation  of'  dollars  and 
cents,  with  which  was  strange¬ 
ly  intermingled  a  project  for 
supplying  the  East  Indies  with 
ice,  by  harnessing  a  team  of 
whales  to  the  polar  icebergs. 

As  for  the  Widow  Wycherly, 
she  stood  before  the  mirror  curt¬ 
sying  and  simpering  to  her  own 
image,  and  greeting  it  as  the 
friend  whom  she  loved  better 
than  all  the  world  beside.  She 
thrust  her  face  close  to  the  glass, 
to  see  whether  some  long-re¬ 
membered  wrinkle”  or  crow’s- 
foot  had  indeed  vanished.  She 
exabined  whether  the  snow  had 
so  entirely  melted  from  her  hair 
that  the  venerable  cap  could  be 
safely  thrown  aside.  At  last, 
toning  briskly  away,  she  came 
with  a  sort  of  dancing  step  to 
the  table. 

“My  dear  old  doctor,”  cried 
she,  “pray  favor  me  with  anoth¬ 
er  glass!” 

“Certainly,  my  dear  madam, 
certainly!”  replied  the  complai¬ 
sant  doctor;  “see!  T  have  already 
filled  the  glasses.” 

THERE,  IN  FACT,  stood  the 


four  glasses,  brimful  of  this 
wonderful  water,  the  delicate 
spray  of  which,  as  it  effervesced 
from  the  surface,  resembled  the 
tremulous  glitter  of  diamonds. 
It  was  now  so  nearly  sunset,  that 
the  chamber  had  grown  duskier 
than  ever;  but  a  mild  and  moon¬ 
like  splendor  gleamed  from 
within  the  vase,  and  rested  alike 
on  the  four  guests,  and  on  the 
doctor’s  venerable  figure.  He 
sat  in  a  high-backed,  elaborate¬ 
ly-carved  oaken  armchair,  with 
a  gray  dignity  of  aspect  that 
might  have  well  befitted  that 
very  Father  Time,  whose  power 
had  never  been  disputed,  save 
by  this  fortunate  company.  Even 
while  quaffing  the  third  draft 
of  the  Fountain  of  Youth,  they 
were  almost  awed  by  the  expres¬ 
sion  of  his  mysterious  visage. 

But,  the  next  moment,  the 
exhilarating  gush  of  young  life 
shot  through  their  veins.  They 
were  now  in  the  happy  prime  of 
youth.  Age,  with  its  miserable 
train  of  cares,  and  sorrows,  and 
diseases,  was  remembered  only 
as  the  trouble  of  a  dream,  from 
which  they  had  joyously  awoke. 
The  fresh  gloss  of  the  soul,  so 
early  lost,  and  without  which 
the  world’s  successive  scenes 
had  been  but  a  gallery  of  faded 
pictures,  again  threw  its  en¬ 
chantment  over  all  their  pros¬ 
pects.  They  felt  like  new-creat¬ 
ed  beings,  in  a  new-created  uni¬ 
verse. 

“We  are  young!  We  are 
young!”  they  cried  exultingly. 


78 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


Youth,  like  the  extremity  of 
age,  had  effaced  the  strongly 
marked  characteristics  of  mid* 
die  life,  and  mutually  assimilat¬ 
ed  them  all.  They  were  a  group 
of  merry  youngsters,  almost 
maddened  with  the  exhuberant 
frolicsomeness  of  their  years. 
The  most  singular  effect  of  their 
gayety  was  an  impulse  to  mock 
the  infirmity  and  decrepitude  of 
which  they  had  so  lately  been 
the  victims.  They  laughed  loud¬ 
ly  at  their  old-fashioned  attire, 
the  wide-skirted  coats  and  flap¬ 
ped  waistcoats  of  the  young 
men,  and  the  ancient  cap  and 
gown  of  the  blooming  girl.  One 
limped  across  the  floor,  like  a 
gouty  grandfather;  one  set  a 
pair  of  spectacles  astride  of  his 
nose,  and  pretended  to  pore 
over  the  blaok  letter  pages  of 
the  book  of  magic;  a  third  seat- 
himself  in  an  armchair,  and 
strove  to  imitate  the  venerable 
dignity  of  Dr.  Heidegger.  Then 
all  shouted  mirthfully,  and  leap¬ 
ed  about  the  room.  The  Widow 
Wycherly  —  if  so  fresh  a  dam¬ 
sel  could  be  called  a  widow  — 
tripped  up  to  the  doctor’s  chair, 
with  a  mischievous  merriment 
in  her  rosy  face. 

“Doctor,  you  dear  old  soul,” 
cried  she,  “get  up  and  dance 
with  me!”  And  then  the  four 
young  people  laughed  louder 
than  ever,  to  think  what  a  queer 
figure  the  poor  old  doctor  would 
cut. 

“Pray  excuse  me,”  answered 
the  doctor,  quietly.  “I  am  old 


and  rheumatic,  and  my  dancing 
days  were  over  long  ago.  But 
either  of  these  gay  young  gen¬ 
tlemen  will  be  glad  of  so  pretty 
a  partner.” 

“Dance  with  me,  Clara!”  cried 
Colonel  Killigrew. 

“No,  no,  I  will  be  her  part¬ 
ner!”  shouted  Mr.  Gascoigne. 

“She  promised  me  her  hand, 
fifty  years  ago!”  exclaimed  Mr. 
Medboume. 

THEY  ALL  gathered  round 
her.  One  caught  both  her  hands 
in  his  passionate  grasp  —  anoth¬ 
er  threw  his  arm  about  her 
waist  —  the  third  buried  his 
hand  among  the  glossv  curls 
that  clustered  beneath  the  wid¬ 
ow’s  cap.  Blushing,  panting, 
struggling,  chiding,  laughing, 
her  warm  breath  fanning  each 
of  their  faces  by  turns,  she 
strove  to  disengage  herself,  yet 
still  remained  in  their  triple  em¬ 
brace.  Never  was  there  a  livelier 
picture  of  youthful  rivalship, 
with  bewitching  beauty  for  the 
prize.  Yet,  by  a  strange  decep¬ 
tion,  owing  to  the  duskiness  of 
the  chamber,  and  the  antique 
dresses  which  they  wore,  the  tall 
mirror  is  said  to  have  reflected 
the  figures  of  three  old,  gray, 
withered  grandsires,  ridiculously 
contending  for  the  skinny  ugli¬ 
ness  of  a  shriveled  grandam. 

,  But  they  were  young:  their 
.  burning  passions  proved  them 
so.  Inflamed  to  madness  by  the 
coquetry  of  the  girl-widow,  who 
neither  granted  nor  quite  with- 


79 


Dr.  Heidegger’s  Experiment 


held  her  favors,  the  three  rivals 
began  to  interchange  threaten¬ 
ing  glances.  Still  keeping  hold 
of  the  fair  prize,  they  grappled 
fiercely  at  one  another’s  throats. 
As  they  struggled  to  and  fro, 
the  table  was  overturned,  and 
the  vase  dashed  into  a  thousand 
fragments.  The  precious  Water 
of  Youth  flowed  in  a  bright 
stream  across  the  floor,  moisten¬ 
ing  the  wings  of  a  butterfly, 
which,  grown  old  in  the  decline 
of  summer,  had  alighted  there 
to  die.  The  insect  fluttered  light¬ 
ly  through  the  chamber,  and 
settled  on  the  snowy  head  of 
Dr.  Heidegger. 

“Gome,  come,  gentlemen!  — 
come,  Madam  Wycherly,”  ex¬ 
claimed  the  doctor,  “I  really 
must  protest  against  this  riot.” 

They  stood  still  and  shivered; 
for  it  seemed  as  if  gray  Time 
were  calling  them  back  from 
their  sunny  youth,  far  down  into 
the  chill  and  darksome  vale  of 
years.  They  looked  at  old  Dr. 
Heidegger,  who  sat  in  his 
carved  armchair,  holding  the 
rose  of  half  a  century,  which  he 
had  rescued  from  among  the 
fragments  of  the  shattered  vase. 
At  the  motion  of  his  hand,  the 
four  rioters  resumed  their  seats; 
the  more  readily,  because  their 
violent  exertions  had  wearied 
them,  youthful  though  they 
were. 

“Mv  poor  Sylvia’s  rose!”  ejac¬ 
ulated  Dr.  Heidegger,  holding  it 
in  the  light  of  the  sunset  clouds; 
“it  appears  to  be  fading  again.” 


And  so  it  was.  Even  while  the 
party  were  looking  at  it,  the 
flower  continued  to  shrivel  up, 
till  it  became  as  dry  and  fragile 
as  when  the  doctor  had  first 
thrown  it  into  the  vase.  He 
shook  off  the  few  drops  of  mois¬ 
ture  which  clung  to  its  petals. 

“I  love  it  as  well  thus,  as  in 
its  dewy  freshness,”  observed 
he,  pressing  the  withered  rose 
to  his  withered  lips.  While  he 
spoke,  the  butterfly  fluttered 
clown  from  the  doctor’s  snowy 
head,  and  fell  upon  the  floor. 

His  guests  shivered  again.  A 
strange  chillness,  whether  of 
the  body  or  spirit  they  could  not 
tell,  was  creeping  gradually 
over  them  all.  They  gazed  at 
one  another,  and  fancied  that 
each  fleeting  moment  snatched 
away  a  charm,  and  left  a  deep¬ 
ening  furrow  where  none  had 
been  before.  Was  it  an  illusion? 
Had  the  changes  of  a  lifetime 
been  crowded  into  so  brief  a 
space,  and  were  they  now  four 
aged  people,  sitting  with  their 
old  friend,  Dr.  Heidegger? 

“Are  we  grown  old  again,  so 
soon!”  cried  they,  dolefully. 

In  truth,  they  had.  The  Water 
of  Youth  possessed  merely  a  vir¬ 
tue  more  transient  than  that  of 
wine.  The  delirium  which  it  cre¬ 
ated  had  effervesced  away.  Yes! 
they  were  old  again.  With  a 
shuddering  impulse,  that  show¬ 
ed  her  a  woman  still,  the  widow 
clasped  her  skinny  hands  before 
her  face,  and  wished  that  the  cof¬ 
fin  lid  were  over  it,  since  it 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


could  be  no  longer  beautiful. 

“Yes,  friends,  ye  are  ojd 
again,”  said  Dr.  Heidegger; 
“and  lo!  the  Water  of  Youth  is 
all  lavished  on  the  ground. 
Well  —  I  bemoan  it  not;  for  if 
the  fountain  gushed  at  my  very 
doorstep,  I  would  not  stoop  to 
bathe  my  lips  in  it  —  no,  though 
its  delirium  were  for  years  in¬ 


stead  of  moments.  Such  is  the 
lesson  ye  have  taught  me!” 

But  the  doctors  four  friends 
had  taught  no  such  lesson  to 
themselves.  They  resolved  forth¬ 
with  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to 
Florida,  and  quaff  at  morning, 
noon,'  and  night  from  the  Foun¬ 
tain  of  Youth. 


ARKHAM  HOUSE’S  25th  ANNIVERSARY 
ANTHOLOGY 

August  Derleth  of  Arkham  House,  Sauk  City,  Wiscon¬ 
sin,  announces  a  collection  of  18  tales  of  the  fantastic 
and  macabre,  none  of  which  have  ever  been  published 
before  in  any  form.  The  contents  of  this  volume  is  as 
follows: 

The  Crew  of  the  Lancing ,  by  William  Hope  Hodgson; 
The  Last  Meeting  of  Two  Old  Friends,  by  H.  Russell 
Wakefield;  The  Shadow  in  the  Attic,  by  H.  P.  Lovecraft; 
The  Renegade,  by  John  Metcalfe;  T old  in  the  Desert,  by 
Clark  Ashton  Smith;  When  the  Rains  Came,  by  Frank 
Belknap  Long;  The  Blue  Flame  of  Vengeance,  a  last  Sol¬ 
omon  Kane  Story,  by  Robert  E.  Howard;  Crabgrass,  by 
Jesse  Stuart;  Kincaid’s  Car,  by  Carl  Jacobi;  The  Patch- 
work  Quilt,  by  August  Derleth;  The  Old  Lady’s  Room, 
by  J.  Vernon  Shea;  The  North  Knoll,  by  Joseph  Payne 
Brennan;  The  Huaco  of  Senior  Perez,  by  Mary  Elizabeth 
Counselman;  Mr.  Alucard,  by  David  A.  Johnstone;  Cast¬ 
ing  the  Stone,  by  John  Pocik;  Aneanoshian,  by  Michael 
Bailey,  and  The  Stone  on  the  Island,  by  J.  Ramsey 
Campbell. 

The  title  of  this  collection  is  Over  the  Edge,  and  the 
book  jacket  is  by  Frank  Utpatel.  $5.00. 


^ke  ^acer 

by  ^Auyuit  ^berletb 


When  the  short  story.  Bat's  Belfry,  appeared  in  the  May  1926  issue 
of  Weihd  Tales,  no  one  except  editor  Farnsworth  Wright  (and  per¬ 
sonal  acquaintances  of  the  author)  knew  that  August  Derleth  was  14 
years  old  when  he  submitted  the  tale.  A  steady  stream  of  short-short 
stories  followed,  some  of  them  in  collaboration  with  Mark  Schorer,  and 
over  20  of  them  appeared  before  Derleth  burst  the  bonds  of  the  short- 
short  tale.  While  Old  Mark  is  slightly  over  the  2500  word  general  top 
length  for  the  short-short  tale.  The  Pacer  can  be  considered  the  auth¬ 
or’s  first  published  short  weird  tale.  In  the  meantime,  Derleth  had 
gotten  into  correspondence  with  H.  P.  Lovecraft,  and  at  the  end  of 
mis  tale  you  will  see  an  excerpt  from  the  author’s  essay,  “Lovecraft 
As  Mentor”,  relating  to  HPL’s  generous  assistance  to  young  authors 
and  to  this  story  in  particular.  As  of  August  1963,  Mr.  Derleth  wrote 
us  that  he  has  had  some  5,000  pieces  published  since  Bat’s  Belfry,  his 
103d  book  had  come  out,  and  “five  more  are  due  by  2/64.”  After 
Lovecraft’s  death  in  1937,  Derleth  founded  Arkham  House,  Publish¬ 
er’s,  in  partnership  with  Donald  Wandrei,  in  order  to  bring  out  HPL’s 
collected  works,  and  the  first  volume  The  Outsider  and  Others  ap¬ 
peared  in  1939.  The  volume  is  out  of  print  and  was  commanding  $100 
per  copy  some  years  ago;  we  have  not  seen  it  advertised  recently  at 
any  price.  Known  for  his  regional  novels,  Derleth  also  has  a  high 
reputation  among  the  Baker  Street  Irregulars  and  other  lovers  of 
Sherlock  Holmes,  for  his  fine  pastiches  of  the  great  detective  in  the 
many  adventures  of  Solar  Pons,  several  collections  of  which  are  avail¬ 
able  in  hard  covers.  Just  as  many  of  the  Solar  Pons  stories  are  based 
upon  cases  referred  to  in  Dr.  Watson’s  notes,  Derleth’s  continuation 
of  the  Cthulhu  Mythos  is,  in  many  tales,  based  upon  themes  referred 
to  in  Lovecraft’s  notes,  letters,  and  Commonplace  Book. 


Copyright  1930  by  Popular  Fiction  Publishing  Co.;  Copyright  1957  by 
August  Derleth;  by  permission  of  Arkham  House. 


81 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


MR.  WILLIAM  LARKINS 
adjusted  his  monocle  with  a 
very  determined  air.  Their  he 
brushed  an  imaginary  thread 
from  his  lapel,  raised  his  eye¬ 
brows  slightly,  and  turned  to 
the  house  agent,  still  talking  vol¬ 
ubly. 

“It  is  people  in  my  business, 
Mr.  Collins,”  said  Mr.  Larkins 
somewhat  icily,  “who  start  ru¬ 
mors  of  this  sort.  This  is  by  far 
the  most  desirable  of  the  houses 
you  have  yet  shown  me,  and  I 
am  determined  to  take  it  for  the 
winter  at  the  price  you  quoted 
me.” 

“You  authors  are  a  funny  lot,” 
answered  the  agent  somewhat 
testily.  “But  we  take  no  respons¬ 
ibilities  —  especially  in  regard 
to  anything  out  of  the  ordinary 
that  may  happen  while  you’re  in 
the  building.” 

Mr.  Larkins  regarded  the 
agent  for  a  moment;  then  he  re¬ 
moved  his  monocle,  polished  it, 
and  returned  it  to  his  eye.  The 
agent  shuffled  his  feet  nervous¬ 
ly.  “I  should  think  that  the  mo¬ 
dern  businessman  would  have 
something  else  on  his  mind  than 
stories  of  haunted  houses,”  re¬ 
marked  Mr.  Larkins  dryly. 

Mr.  Collins  became  suddenly 
apologetic.  “It’s  not  that  we  be¬ 
lieve  these  things,  Mr.  Larkins,” 
and  he  spread  his  hands  and 
smiled  deprecatingly,  “but  the 
amount  of  complaints  we’ve  re¬ 
ceived  from  other  people  who’ve 
rented  this  place  can’t  be  entire¬ 
ly  disregarded.  Then  there’s  that 


closed  room;  a  lot  of  people  ob¬ 
ject  to  that,  but  one  fellow  op¬ 
ened  it,  and  —  well,  he  died 
shortly  a  f  t  e  r.”  Mr.  Collins 
coughed. 

“It  will  not  be  necessary  that 
I  use  the  second  floor  at  all,”  put 
in  Mr.  Larkins,  “So  you  need 
have  no  fear  about  that  closed 
room.  As  long  as  it  doesn’t  both¬ 
er  me,  I’ll  not  bother  the  room.” 

“Of  course,”  said  Mr.  Collins, 
and  “Of  course,”  again,  and 
would  perhaps  have  gone  on, 
but  Mr.  Larkins  interrupted 
him. 

“If  I  may  ask  on  what  are 
these  rumors  based?” 

“Just  noises  —  as  if  someone 
were  walking  around  up  there.” 
The  agent  made  a  vague  sort  of 
gesture  that  included  the  entire 
second  story. 

“I  see,”  .‘jaid  Mr.  Larkins 
thoughtfully. 

“Of  course,  all  these  stories 
go  back  to  the  time  when  John 
Brent  lived  here,”  the  agent 
went  on. 

“You  refer  to  the  scientist 
Brent?  The  man  who  died  in¬ 
sane?”  asked  Mr.  Larkins,  ab¬ 
sently  tapping  on  the  wall  with 
his  stick. 

“Yes,  that’s  the  man.  Perhaps 
you  knew  him,  Mr.  Larkins?” 

“I’m  afraid  not,  Mr.  Collins.  It 
is  not  a  practice  of  mine  to  as¬ 
sociate  with  people  who  are 
slightly  unbalanced  mentally.  I 
can  say  that  I  remember  him, 
however;  the  man  and  his  ridic- 


The  Pacer 


83 


ulous  theories  attracted  quite  a 
bit  of  public  attention.” 

“He  died  here  in  this  house.” 

“Dear  me!”  exclaimd  Mr.  Lar¬ 
kins,  for  the  first  time  showing 
interest.  “And  is  it  his  ghost  that 
walks?” 

“No!  No!  Mr.  Larkins.  It’s 
quite  a  different  story;  we  — 
none  of  us  fully  understand  it, 
and  it’s  supposed  that  this  man 
Brent  had  a  hand  in  what’s 
haunting  the  house.” 

“Something  to  do  with  one  of 
his  theories?” 

“Yes,  that’s  it.  I’m  not  quite 
sure  what  it’s  all  about,  Mr.  Lar¬ 
kins,  but  I  can  find  out,  if  you 
wish.” 

“Oh!  no,  don’t  go  to  any  trou¬ 
ble.  The  matter  doesn’t  worry 
me  in  the  least,  Mr.  Collins.  It’s 
merely  a  passing  interest.  Don’t 
trouble  yourself. 

“As  far  as  I  know,”  continued 
Mr.  Collins,  “it  had  something 
to  do  with  some  theory  about 
drawing  spirits  out  of  the  ether 
—  or  some  such  idea.” 

“I  think  I’ve  heard  of  it,”  in¬ 
terrupted  Mr.  Larkins.  “I  under¬ 
stand  it  was  not  quite  a  success.” 

“I  couldn’t  say,  Mr.  Larkins; 
I’m  sure  I  couldn’t  say.” 

“No,”  said  Mr.  Larkins  rather 
sharply.  “I  didn’t  suppose  you 
could.  But  as  I  said  before,  the 
matter  is  inconsequential,  of 
very  little  importance,  indeed, 
and  I  believe  that  we  can  dis¬ 
miss  it.  Shall  we,  Mr.  Collins?” 

“Oh!  yes,  Mr.  Larkins.  Yes, 
sir;  of  course.” 


“Good!”  said  Mr.  Larkins,  and 
was  about  to  go  on,  when  the 
agent  interrupted  him. 

“And  you’re  still  certain  you 
want  this  house?” 

“Quite,”  said  Mr.  Larkins  in  a 
cold  voice  edged  with  reproof. 
“And  the  sooner,  the  better.  In 
fact,  I  suggest  that  we  attend  to 
the  matter  at  once,  without  fur¬ 
ther  delay.” 

“Anything  you  say,  Mr.  Lar¬ 
kins.” 

“Very  good.  We  shall  go  at 
once.” 

MR.  WILLIAM  LARKINS’ 
forte  was  the  romantic  novel, 
and  he  had  just  succeeded  in 
arousing  the  literary  critics  of 
the  Continent  to  a  sense  of  his 
importance.  At  the  appearance 
of  his  first  book  they  hailed  him 
as  “Just  another  new  writer,” 
which  so  irritated  Mr.  Larkins 
that  he  produced  his  master¬ 
piece,  Ysola,  which  caught  and 
held  the  veneration  of  such  cap¬ 
able  men  as  Alonso  Compson  of 
the  Minor,  to  say  nothing  of 
Carlo  Jenkins  of  the  Times. 

Mr.  Larkins  was  engaged  on 
his  third  novel,  Island  Gods, 
when  he  discovered  the  necessi¬ 
ty  of  quiet  and  unassuming  win¬ 
ter  quarters.  Whereupon  he  de¬ 
parted  at  once  for  St.  John’s 
Wood,  a  section  of  London  that 
he  had  before  been  pleased 
with.  Not  quite  a  week  later,  he 
descended  with  his  belongings 
on  Number  21  and  took  quiet 
possession. 


84 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


Mr.  William  Larkins  had 
quite  forgotten  all  about  the  ru¬ 
mors  concerning  the  haunting  of 
Number  21,  when  the  matter 
was  brought  to  his  mind  in  a 
very  irritating  manner.  It  was 
six  days  after  he  had  taken  up 
occupation,  and  Mr.  Larkins  was 
at  work  on  his  third  novel  —  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  just  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  depositing  his  hero  on 
a  desert  island,  with  no  immed¬ 
iate  thought  of  how  to  rescue 
him  —  when  he  became  aware 
of  a  most  annoying  disturbance 
on  the  second  floor.  For  a  mo¬ 
ment  Mr.  Larkins  forgot  his  sur¬ 
roundings;  he  began  to  curse 
the  tenants  above  under  his 
breath  in  no  very  genteel  man¬ 
ner.  But  suddenly  he  bethought 
himself  of  the  emptiness  of  the 
floor  above.  It  took  him  some 
moments  more  to  think  of  the 
rumors  he  had  heard  from  the 
agent. 

Mr.  Larkins  was  distinctly  not 
a  believer  in  any  form  of  the 
supernatural.  For  some  time  he 
sat  very  still,  listening.  The 
sound  seemed  to  be  that  of  a 
man  pacing  to  and  fro  in  a  nar¬ 
row  space;  Mr.  Larkins  had  a 
mental  picture  of  the  closed 
room.  The  pacing  was  not,  how¬ 
ever,  very  regular;  it  was  punc¬ 
tuated  at  odd  intervals  by  a 
furious  pounding  sound  -  as  if 
the  tenant  were  hammering  on 
the  door  or  the  walls,  reflected 
the  author.  Usually  such  an  in¬ 
terval  was  followed  by  a  curious 
padding  sound,  as  if  the  tenant 


were  running  in  a  circle  around 
the  room.  Eventually  this  re¬ 
solved  into  the  steady  pacing, 
which  became  to  Mr.  Larkins, 
more  and  more  monotonous  as 
he  sat  there  listening. 

Another  of  Mr.  Larkins’  attri¬ 
butes  was  an  unshakable  brav¬ 
ery.  Torn  between  the  impossi¬ 
bility  of  writing  with  such  an 
annoying  disturbance  above  his 
head,  arm  investigating,  leaving 
his  hero  to  languish  for  some 
unpremeditated  hours  on  the 
island,  Mr.  Larkins  decided  up¬ 
on  the  latter  course.  Arming 
himself  with  a  revolver  and  a 
flashlight,  he  made  his  way 
carefully  into  the  hall  and  up  the 
stairs.  The  first  door  to  his  right 
as  he  mounted  the  last  step  was 
that  of  the  closed  room.  Before 
this  room  he  paused,  listening. 
Certainly  it  was  from  here  that 
the  sound  came!  It  was  more 
subdued,  now,  but  still  recogniz¬ 
able.  Mr.  Larkins  argued  with 
himself:  should  he  enter,  or  not? 
He  decided  that,  just  as  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  surety,  he  would  look  in¬ 
to  the  other  rooms  first. 

There  was  nothing  in  them, 
and  when  he  had  finished,  the 
annoying  pacing  had  stopped. 
Consequently,  Mr.  Larkins  de¬ 
cided  to  put  off  his  investigation 
of  the  closed  room  until  he  had 
fortified  himself  with  more  data 
in  regard  to  the  late  Brent  and 
his  theories.  Mr.  Larkins  was  not 
admitting  to  himself  the  possi¬ 
bility  of  the  supernaural;  he  was 
still  convinced  that  there  was 


The  Pacer 


85 


something  perfectly  natural  be¬ 
hind  this  disturbance.  In  any 
event,  he  reflected,  it  would  do 
no  harm  to  know  a  little  more 
about  the  house.  He  resolved  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment  to  look 
up  the  case  of  the  man  who  had 
died  after  opening  the  closed 
room. 

In  accordance  with  h  i  s  deci¬ 
sion,  Mr.  Larkins  descended  to 
his  floor  and  went  directly  to 
the  typewriter,  where  he  remov¬ 
ed  his  hero  bodily  from  the  ma¬ 
chine.  Then  he  sat  down  and 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  late  Mr. 
Brent’s  co-worker,  Jonathan  Ro¬ 
berts. 

ON  THE  following  day  Mr. 
Larkins  wandered  casually 
down  to  the  offices  of  the  Times, 
where  he  spent  a  considerable 
part  of  the  afternoon.  He  emerg¬ 
ed  at  last,  and  he  carried  under 
his  arm  a  number  of  newspapers. 
When  he  reached  Number  21  he 
was  pleasantly  surprised  to  find 
that  Mr.  Jonathan  Roberts  had 
replied  to  his  letter  of  the  pre¬ 
ceding  night  by  special  messen¬ 
ger. 

It  was  the  letter,  quite  a 
lengthy  document,  which  first 
engaged  Mr.  Larkins’  attention. 
Of  special  interest  were  these 
paragraphs,  constituting  the  lat¬ 
er  half  of  the  letter: 

.  .  .  Those  are  a  number  of  his  the¬ 
ories,  which  I  have  come  to  regard  as 
fully  ridiculous  as  the  press  regards 
them.  But  I  believe  the  particular 
theory  you  refer  to  is  his  theory  of 


the  predestination  of  souls.  This  was 
engrossing  his  attention  at  a  time 
when  I  was  spending  some  weeks  at 
Liverpool,  in  attendance  upon  my 
mother,  who  was,  at  the  time,  seri¬ 
ously  ill.  However,  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  can  in  regard  to  the  theory. 

It  was  his  idea  that  such  places  as 
heaven  and  hell  did  not  exist  for  the 
soul;  he  did  not  mean  to  say  that  he 
believed  that  good  and  evil  were  also 
non-existent  for  the  soul  after  death. 
On  the  contrary,  his  entire  theory 
hinged  on  this  point.  He  believed 
that  all  souls,  good  and  bad  alike, 
were  projected  into  the  ether  at  the 
moment  of  death,  to  roam  there  for 
the  remainder  of  their  existence,  to 
which  he  designated  no  end.  For  the 
good  souls  happiness  abounded;  for 
the  evil,  only  evil. 

He  developed  this  theory  by  ad¬ 
vancing  another;  that  since  these 
souls  were  merely  passing  to  and  fro 
in  the  ether,  it  would  be  a  compara¬ 
tively  easy  thing  to  draw  them  back, 
if  one  had  a  body  to  put  them  into. 
The  last  time  I  saw  him  —  just  be¬ 
fore  I  left  for  Liverpool  —  he  had  ac¬ 
tually  found  a  young  man  who  had 
consented  to  his  plan  of  driving  from 
the  subject’s  body  his  soul,  and  draw¬ 
ing  another  from  the  ether  to  replace 
it. 

He  admitted  that  the  chief  argu¬ 
ment  against  this  latter  theory  was, 
in  the  light  of  his  first  theory,  that  in 
drawing  a  soul  from  the  ether,  one 
could  make  no  distinction  between  a 
good  and  evil  soul.  Also,  one  could 
not  tell  to  what  proportions  the  evil 
and  good  had  expanded.  He  believed, 
as  many  of  us  do,  that  evil  breeds 
evil,  and  he  said  he  had  the  chance 
of  one  in  a  hundred  of  drawing  a 
soul  of  cosmic  evil  from  the  ether.  In 
my  presence,  one  day,  he  made  cer¬ 
tain  vague  references  to  ancient  gods 
of  evil  —  I  candidly  admit  that  what 
he  said  went  over  my  head. 

How  this  experiment  of  his  came 
out,  I  can  not  say.  It  was  the  last  he 
worked,  for  he  was  dead  when  I  re¬ 
turned  from  Liverpool.  The  papers 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


contained  no  mention  of  it;  he  him¬ 
self,  in  his  letters  to  me  —  letters, 
often  as  not,  very  incoherent  -*■  was 
very  sparse  with  information  regard¬ 
ing  it.  I  gathered,  however,  that  the 
experiment  was  a  success,  or  that  he 
believed  it  so;  most  likely  the  latter, 
for  to  admit  the  former  would  be  to 
admit  his  grossly  improbable  theory 
to  the  realm  of  the  probable.  Beyond 
that  I  can  say  nothing.  I  don’t  think 
he  ever  gave  me  the  name  of  the 
young  man,  for  I  should  certainly 
have  looked  him  up.  It  was  consist¬ 
ently  my  idea  that  the  fellow  was  a 
derelict,  or  surely  his  relatives  would 
have  some  knowledge  of  him;  or, 
having  none,  would  certainly  raise  a 
devil  of  a  row  over  his  disappearance. 

I  was  under  the  impression  also, 
from  his  letters,  that  Brent  kept  a 
diary  in  his  last  days,  but  I  could 
find  nothing  at  the  time  when  I 
looked  about  Number  21  after  his 
death.  However,  I  remember  being 
in  a  rush;  if  you  searched,  you  might 
find  something  of  interest. 

Another  thing  that  rather  puzzles 
me:  have  you  ever  wondered  about 
that  peculiar  bare  spot  beneath  the 
lilac  bush  at  the  back  of  the  house? 

Very  cordially  yours, 

Jonathan  Roberts. 

P.  S.  —  If  you  should  want  me,  call 
Picadilly  49-A. 

THE  LAST  paragraph  of  the 
letter  caught  Mr.  Larkins’  eye; 
he  resolved  to  investigate  the 
matter  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning,  regretting  somewhat 
that  dusk  had  fallen  so  early. 
The  mention  of  a  diary,  too, 
stimulated  his  interest;  he  men¬ 
tally  noted  that  this  was  another 
factor  to  absorb  his  attention  on 
the  following  day. 

Then  he  gave  his  attention  to 
die  newspapers,  going  over 
them  one  by  one  and  discarding 


them.  From  the  last  he  clipped 
a  column  which  contained  a 
summary  of  the  affair;  this  clip¬ 
ping  he  placed  beside  the  letter 
and  proceeded  to  reread  it: 

LONDON,  August  7  -  The  death 
of  Mr.  Holman  Davitt  at  Number  21 
St.  .John’s  Wood  was  last  night  de¬ 
clared  due  to  heart  failure  caused  by 
severe  shock.  Physicians  in  charge  of 
the  inquest  were  led  by  the  Honor¬ 
able  Seymour  Lawlor. 

Mr.  Holman  Davitt  was  found 
dead  at  his  lodgings  on  August  1.  He 
was  found  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
under  circumstances  that  aroused 
immediate  suspicion  and  caused  an 
investigation  to  be  made.  Nothing, 
however,  was  discovered,  save  that 
Mr.  Davitt  seemed  to  have  fallen 
down  the  stairs,  as  several  bruises  on 
his  body  indicated.  There  were  no 
broken  bones.  Doctors  were  loth  to 
declare  death  due  to  failure  of  the 
heart  because  Mr.  Davitt’s  attending 
hysician.  Dr.  Sfx  Borden,  declared 
is  condition  tip-top. 

It  is  Dr.  Lawlor  s  opinion,  as  ex¬ 
pressed  at  the  final  inquest  last  night, 
that  Mr.  Davitt  died  of  fright;  Dr. 
Borden,  on  the  other  hand,  cites  spe¬ 
cific  instances  of  Mr.  Davitt’s  bravery 
and  nerve.  A  peculiar  feature  of  the 
affair  is  the  curiously  hardened  and 
cold  condition  of  the  corpse;  it  is  still 
in  the  condition  in  which  it  was  dis¬ 
covered. 

By  way  of  mention.  Number  21 
was  the  residence .  of  the  late  John 
Brent,  who  was  found  dead  under 
very  similar  conditions. 

Mr.  Larkins  pondered  over 
the  excerpt  for  a  moment;  then 
he  took  up  the  letter  and  began 
to  reread  it.  He  noticed  with 
gathering  astonishment  that 
neither  the  clipping  nor  the  let¬ 
ter  made  mention  of  the  closed 


The  Pacer  87 


room.  Did  the  matter  seem  too 
flippant  for  the  respective  writ¬ 
ers?  Or  was  it  merely  an  over¬ 
sight?  The  closed  room,  as  some¬ 
thing  of  importance,  began  to 
deteriorate  in  the  eyes  of  Mr. 
Larkins. 

But  he  could  not  escape  the 
fact  that  the  body  of  Mr.  Davitt 
had  been  found  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  down  which  it  had 
evidently  fallen.  And  Dr.  Law- 
lor  had  mentioned  fright.  Mr. 
Collins,  the  agent,  had  said  that 
the  tenant  died  soon  after  op¬ 
ening  the  door  of  the  closed 
room.  Perhaps  —  it  was  quite 
possible  —  Collins  deceived  him. 
Mr.  Larkins  observed  that  Mr. 
Davitt  might  very  well  have 
died  the  same  night  he  opened 
the  door.  Could  it  not  then  be 
possible  that  something  in  that 
room  so  frightened  Mr.  Davitt 
as  to  bring  on  heart  failure?  Mr. 
Larkins  admitted  it  to  himself; 
he  was  much  disposed  to  believe 
it.  It  would  be  natural  for  a  real¬ 
tor  to  suppress  any  such  story, 
of  course. 

A  clock  on  the  mantel  struck 
10  and  Mr.  Larkins  shot  an  en¬ 
lightened  glance  toward  his  bed 
chamber.  He  rose,  stretched 
himself,  and  yawned.  He  placed 
the  letter  and  clipping  under  a 
paperweight  on  the  top  of  his 
table,  where  he  would  not  fail 
to  see  them  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  As  he  turned  the  light 
out,  he  reflected  with  a  half¬ 
smile,  that  the  hero  of  Island 


Gods  was  still  languishing  on  a 
desert  isle. 

MR.  LARKINS  rose  much 
earlier  than  usual  the  next 
morning,  but  since  it  was  Sun¬ 
day,  he  had  first  to  go  to  mass. 
Directly  on  his  return  he  went 
out  into  the  garden  behind  the 
house.  At  the  end  of  the  cobble¬ 
stone  walk  he  found  the  lilac 
bush,  and  beneath  it  the  spot 
that  Roberts  had  mentioned.  He 
stopped  and  frowned  down  at  it. 
It  was  nothing  more  than  a 
vague,  irregular  patch  of  ground 
on  which  the  grass  grew  very 
sparsely,  in  scragglv  clumps  of 
thin  blades,  which  appeared  at 
first  to  be  dried,  but  were  in¬ 
stead  of  some  dark  color  that 
Mr.  Larkins  could  not  identify. 
To  Mr.  Larkins  it  seemed  at  first 
glance  only  the  usual  bare  space 
that  one  finds  in  places  where 
the  sun  does  not  shine,  where 
there  is  continual  shadow.  Mr. 
Larkins  polished  his  monocle 
meditatively  and  screwed  it  into 
his  eye.  Then,  looking  upward, 
he  caught  the  line  of  the  lilac 
bush.  It  was  then  that  he  no¬ 
ticed  that  the  bare  spot  was  not 
directly  under  the  bush  —  cer- 
ainly  it  was  not  always  in  its 
shadow.  Mr.  Larkins  bent  to 
one  knee  to  inspect  the  area 
more  closely. 

In  no  place  under  the  bush 
was  the  grass  exceptionally 
heavy;  the  strange  thing  was 
that  the  barest  spot  was  that  at 
the  extreme  outer  edge  and  that 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


it  must  be  this  portion  that  Ro¬ 
berts  had  reference  to.  Mr.  Lar¬ 
kins  cast  a  sudden  glance  at  the 
sky;  in  less  than  an  hour  the  sun 
would  be  shining  directly  upon 
the  spot  before  him.  With  an 
exclamation,  he  bent  again  to 
the  scrutiny.  Then  he  noticed 
that  there  was  a  suggestion  of 
definite  form  to  the  spot,  despite 
the  inroads  of  grass:  something 
more  distinct  than  he  had  first 
imagined.  It  was  a  shape  inex- 
licably  suggestive  of  something 
e  knew  —  something  he  could 
recognize. 

Then  suddenly  he  started  up; 
his  monocle  fell  from  his  eye 
and  swung  on  its  ribbon.  He 
bent  forward  once  more.  Yes, 
certainly,  it  was  as  if  a  human 
body  were  crouched  there  on  its 
side  —  its  knees  pressed  into  its 
breast.  For  a  moment  Mr.  Lar¬ 
kins  stared  at  it.  Did  Roberts 
mean  —  could  it  be  that  this  spot 
marked  a  grave?  Mr.  Larldns 
shuddered,  and  turned  his  face 
full  into  the  sunlight. 

IN  THE  HOUSE  once  more, 
Mr.  Larkins  began  his  search  for 
the  diary  of  the  scientist.  He 
looked  thoroughly  in  every  room; 
he  even  penetrated  the  dismal 
cellar.  But  he  found  nothing. 
Coming  back  to  his  study  at  last 
he  considered  opening  the 
closed  room,  but  the  clipping 
before  him  did  not  argue  favor¬ 
ably.  It  was  then  that  he  caught 
sight  of  the  boarded-up  fire¬ 
place.  He  hesitated  only  for  a 


moment;  then  he  began  to  tear 
the  boards  away. 

He  was  not  disappointed, 
though  his  find  was  meager.  Al¬ 
most  covered  with  ashes,  he 
found  two  charred  pieces  of 
paper,  which  were  most  certain¬ 
ly  from  Brent’s  diary.  He  car¬ 
ried  them  carefully  over  to  his 
table  and  placed  them  side-by- 
side  with  the  letter  and  the  clip¬ 
ping.  But  his  disappointment 
rose  when  he  found  that  the 
writing  was  almost  illegible  and 
the  contents  were  most  incoher¬ 
ent.  The  excerpts  were  dated  a 
week  apart.  The  first  read,  as 
well  as  Mr.  Larkins  could  deci¬ 
pher  the  script: 

May  10  —  I  did  it  today  —  it  was 
all  I  could  do.  Who  would  have 
thought  it?  One  chance  out  of  one 
hundred!  What  annoys  mfe  is  that  I 
have  succeeded,  and  can  not  an¬ 
nounce  it  to  the  world.  ...  I  buried 
him  in  the  back  ...  I  wonder  if  .  .  . 
neighbors  will  see?  I  shall  never  for¬ 
get  ...  his  face  ...  his  air  of  un¬ 
holy  ...  of  sinful  glee  ...  his  first 
struggles  for  life,  and  the  expression 
.  .  .  face,  such  cosmic  .  .  . 

The  remainder  of  the  paper 
was  burnt  away.  Mr.  Larkins 
would  have  liked  to  know  what 
word  followed  “cosmic”.  He 
turned  his  attention  to  the  sec¬ 
ond  excerpt. 

May  17  —  1  know  he  is  dead!  It 
was  with  my  own  hands!  And  still  he 
paces  —  one,  two,  three,  four,  and 
over  again.  And  that  hellish  pound¬ 
ing.  My  God!  Will  he  never  stop?  It 


The  Pacer 


is  driving  me  mad;  people  on  the 
street  turn  and  give  me  curious  stares. 

If  I  had  not  locked  his  room?  But 
surely  I  am  safe  here?  ...  He  can 
not  come  here.  How  could  it  be?  It 
is  to  defy  all  the  laws  that  mankind 
has  been  brought  up  to  revere  —  but 
have  not  I  myself  proved  the  folly 
of  these  very  laws?  I  now  champion? 
.  .  .  What  am  I  writing?  As  if  the 
atmosphere  of  this  old  house  could 
harm  me!  It  is  all  my  imagination. 
But  no,  there  he  goes  again;  pound¬ 
ing  and  pacing  .  .  .  pacing!  Seeking 
for  substance  for  a  new  body  —  for  a 
new  material  entity.  He  will  need 
three  —  three  living  bodies.  .  .  .  What 
have  I  done?  His  room  must  not  be 
opened.  It  establishes  a  link  —  a 
contact  with  that  thing  out  there  — 
it  will  draw  him  closer  and  closer  — 
and  closer.  God!  that  devilish,  devilish 
pacing!  Always!  Always!  Always! 
What  if  he  should  come  out? 


MR.  LARKINS  was  startled 
to  say  the  least.  His  natural  con¬ 
servatism  urged  him  to  take 
these  excerpts  as  proof  of  Brent’s 
insanity;  but  something  in  him 
was  inclined  toward  the  oppo¬ 
site  view.  It  was  the  second  ex¬ 
cerpt  that  seemed  to  awaken  a 
long-dead  memory  in  Mr.  Lar¬ 
kins’  mind.  It  was  of  something 
he  had  read  long  ago,  something 
that  drummed  insistently 
through  his  consciousness.  He 
could  not  recall  the  title  of  the 
wrok,  but  it  seemed  to  him  to 
be  an  old  paper  on  certain  forms 
of  ancient,  barbaric  magic  ming¬ 
led  with  designated  ritualistic 
rites  of  old  Chinese  ancestor- 
worshipers.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  there  had  been  certain 
notes,  certain  cryptic  comments, 
that  virtually  underscored  a  sen¬ 


tence  in  the  second  excerpt  of 
Brent’s  diary: 

Seeking  for  substance  for  a  new 
body  —  for  a  new  material  entity.  He 
will  need  three  —  three  living  bodies. 

There  was  something  of  age- 
old  gods  of  evil,  genii  older 
than  those  of  the  Arabian 
Nights,  who  inhabited  the  neth¬ 
ermost  spaces  of  the  cosmos. 
And  there  were  paragraphs  of 
weird,  horrible  rites  —  of  mater¬ 
ialization  of  these  ancient  de¬ 
mons  —  and  certainly  there  was 
something  of  three  living  sacri¬ 
fices,  from  whom  all  life  was 
extracted,  leaving  them  cold 
and  stiffened  as  arctic  stone. 

Mr.  Larkins  was  stunned  by 
the  immensity  of  his  specula¬ 
tions.  His  mind  was  channeled 
—  it  led  but  to  one  thing.  Could 
it  be  that  the  fingers  of  Mr. 
Brent’s  ghastly  experiment  had 
reached  out  much  farther  than 
intended?  —  that  the  experiment 
had  reached  through  space  into 
the  cosmos  and  touched  upon 
.  .  .?  Mr.  Larkins  shook  off  die 
impression,  and  slipped  the  ex¬ 
cerpts  together  with  the  letter 
and  clipping  under  the  paper¬ 
weight.  Then  he  rose,  donned 
his  topcoat  and  stick,  and  went 
for  an  afternoon  in  Hyde  Park. 

SOMEWHAT  DELAYED  on 
the  underground,  Mr.  Larkins 
arrived  at  Number  21  shortiy 
after  dark  had  fallen.  He  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  matter 
of  the  closed  room,  and  ap- 


90 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


proached  his  work,  eager  to  res¬ 
cue  the  hero  of  Island  Qods 
from  the  desert  island. 

He  had  moved  his  hero  ap¬ 
proximately  twenty  miles  into 
midocean  when  the  pacing  be¬ 
gan.  Mr.  Larkins  stopped  work 
at  once;  he  cast  a  sidelong 
glance  at  his  flash  and  revolver, 
still  where  he  had  put  them  two 
nights  before.  His  conservatism 
urged  him  to  investigate;  again 
some  opposing  factor  urged 
him  to  flee  —  to  leave  the  house. 

But  his  conservatism  won.  Mr. 
Larkins  took  up  his  flashlight 
and  revolver  and  crept  cautious¬ 
ly  up  the  stairs.  Halfway  up,  he 
stopped  and  listened.  The  dis¬ 
turbance  was  exactly  the  same 
as  that  of  the  night  before. 
Then,  tightening  his  grasp  on 
his  weapon,  he  went  resolutely 
on. 

It  was  only  natural  that  he 
should  stop  a  moment  to  listen 
before  the  door,  before  he  took 
from  his  keyring  die  key  to  open 
the  room.  For  an  interval  he 
heard  nothing;  then  the  slow, 
monotonous  pacing  sound  again. 
He  threw  open  the  door  and 
shot  his  flash  around. 

There  was  nothing  in  the 
room  —  but  the  pacing  contin¬ 
ued!  Suddenly,  inexplicably,  Mr. 
Larkins  felt  frightened.  Had  he 
but  found  some  living  thing  — 
something  to  challenge!  But  th'is 
inexplicable  nothingness  —  and 
that  awful  pacing! 

Then  abruptly  his  flashlight 
went  out.  For  a  moment  Mr. 


Larkins  was  stunned.  Then  he 
noticed  that  the  window  at  the 
end  of  die  room  looked  directly 
down  on  the  lilac  bush,  ana 
above  the  bare  spot  hung  a 
shadow,  distinct  in  the  glow  of 
the  street  lamp  —  a  shadow  that 
was  not  of  the  lilac  bush. 

Mr.  Larkins  watched  as  if 
fascinated.  The  shadow  rose  like 
a  cloud,  hung  for  a  moment  sus¬ 
pended  in  the  air,  then  shot 
swiftly  toward  the  window.  Mr. 
Larkins  turned  to  flee,  and  at 
that  instant  he  saw  before  him, 
limned  against  the  window,  an 
awful  thing. 

He  ran  headlong  into  the  hall 
and  down  the  stairs.  As  he  fum¬ 
bled  at  the  door  of  his  library, 
he  threw  over  his  shoulder  a 
uick,  scared  glance.  Then  the 
oor  opened,  and  he  stumbled 
into  the  room.  At  once  he  slam¬ 
med  the  door  to,  and  stood  with 
his  back  against  it,  breathing 
heavily.  Leaning  there,  he  lis¬ 
tened.  From  upstairs  came  a 
sound  as  of  some  heavy  lumber¬ 
ing  object  pacing  -  and  almost 
immediately  after,  an  ominous 
creak  of  hall  boards.  Suddenly 
the  telephone  on  the  table 
caught  Mr.  Larkins’  eye  —  and 
close  by,  the  letter  from  Roberts. 

The  letter  from  Roberts  —  in 
a  flash,  the  postscript: 

If  you  should  want  me,  call  Piea- 
dilly  49-A. 

HE  FOUND  himself  at  the 
instrument,  frantically  repeating 
a  number  to  the  operator.  Then 


The  Pacer 


91 


from  over  the  wire,  a  voice.  “Ro¬ 
berts?  Larkins!  Listen,  I’ve  op¬ 
ened  the  closed  room  —  and  it’s 
coming  —  down  the  stairs  —  a 
horrible  thing  —  from  that  spot 
—  the  grave  under  the  bush  .  .  . 
I  can  hear  it  coming  —  a  great, 
awful  thing.  What  ungodly  cre¬ 
ation  is  buried  there?  ...  It 
towers  —  ghoul-like  —  but  with 
a  face  —  a  human  face  that 
lows  hellishly  —  a  glow  that 
ghts  every  gray  contour.  It  is 
evil  —  cosmic  evil  —  and  cold  as 
arctic  stone.  There  are  ancient 
gods  ...  It  is  all  clear  now  — 
your  letter,  the  diary.  Brent.  It 
is  still  on  the  stairs  —  but  it  is 
coming  —  coming.  There  is 
something  wrong  —  I  can  not 
move  —  as  if  I  were  chained. 
But  I  will  shoot  this  thing!  .  .  . 
It  is  in  the  hall  now.  .  .  .  The 


knob  is  turning.  .  .  .  Oh!  Christ!” 

The  telephone  struck  the  ta¬ 
ble  with  a  loud  clatter;  immed¬ 
iately  after,  a  shot  echoed 
through  the  house. 

It  was  the  shot  that  brought 
the  “bobby”  who  discovered  the 
author’s  body.  The  “bobby”  says 
that  the  body  was  very  cold  and 
rigid,  as  if  something  vital  had 
been  drawn  from  it;  yet  he  af¬ 
firms  that  he  entered  the  house 
immediately  after  the  shot:  this 
certainly  can  not  be  true.  He  al¬ 
so  asserts  that  there  was  some¬ 
one  else  in  the  house,  for  he  dis¬ 
tinctly  remembers  a  ghastly  chill 
about  his  throat,  a  sudden  draft 
—  as  if  someone  had  opened  a 
door  somewhere  —  and  a  steady 
low  pacing  sound  creeping  away 
into  the  distance. 


LOVECRAFT  AND  “THE  PACER” 

The  Lovecraft-Derleth  correspondence  started  in  July  1926,  when  August 
Derleth  was  seventeen;  he  wrote  HPL  to  ask  where  he  could  find  M.  P.  Shiel’s 
story,  The  House  of  Sounds.  As  many  others  discovered,  HPL  wrote  enthusias¬ 
tically  and  at  length  to  anyone  writing  to  him  who  showed  an  interest  in  weird 
fiction.  He  invited  young  writers  to  send  him  their  mss.  for  criticism.  Derleth 
notes: 

“From  week  to  week,  Lovecraft  read  my  many  manuscripts  with  singular 
patience.  Sometimes  he  rewrote  entire  endings  in  the  course  of  his  letters,  and 
many  times  he  devoted  several  pages  to  a  discussion  of  relatively  minor  points. 
And  always  the  nuggets  of  advice  for  a  struggling  young  writer  shone  like  pure 
gold.  .  .  . 

“.  .  .  He  wrote  a  lengthy  letter  of  information  about  Roman  Britain  in  con¬ 
nection  with  a  manuscript  of  mine  titled  Incident  Hi  a  Roman  Camp,  which  was 
later  revised  in  accordance  with  his  suggestions,  retitled  Old  Mark,  and  sold  to 
Weird  Tales,  where  it  appeared  in  the  issue  for  August  1929.  ... 

“He  was  customarily  enthusiastic  about  the  stories  his  young  correspondents 
submitted,  evidently  because  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  give  encouragement,  he 
ought  not  to  discourage  talent,  and  so  he  spurred  hope  in  the  owner  of  even 
the  thinnest  and  least  visible  talent.  But  there  were  degrees  to  his  enthusiasm. 
'Coleman’s  Shoulder  is  splendid  —  full  of  genuine  atmosphere  —  and  I  strongly 
nope  it  will  see  print  eventually.  Your  teacher’s  suggestion  is  good,  unless  it 
means  a  definite  abandonment  of  the  possibility  of  supernatural  action.  Don’t 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


go  to  that  length  —  leave  a  horrible  doubt  in  the  reader’s  mind.  That’s  the  secret 
of  an  effective  terror-tale.’  Thus,  in  April.  (1928)  In  August:  ‘I  like  The  Pacer 
exceedingly  —  it  is  really  one  of  the  best  things  you  have  done  so  far.  The  at¬ 
mosphere  and  suspense  are  Very  convincing,  and  the  denouement  is  powerful 
enough  to  justify  the  elaborate  preparation.  If  Wright  doesn’t  take  it,  I  shall 
believe  that  his  recent  lucid  interval  was  a  phenomenally  brief  and  insubstantial 
one. 

“  ‘As  for  a  criticism  —  as  usual.  I’d  suggest  your  taking  a  little  more  pains 
regarding  the  fine  points  of  style  —  precise  selection  of  words,  avoidance  of 
repetition,  skillful  management  of  rhythms  and  tone-colour,  &,  &.  ...  Now, 

as  to  the  actual  structure  —  the  most  obvious  fault  is  having  the  grave  distin¬ 
guishable  as  a  mound  —  the  conventional  symbol  of  a  grave  —  over  his  victim’s 
place  of  interment.  And  mounds  don’t  sprout  of  themselves  above  inhuman 
corpses!  The  best  way  to  suggest  a  grave  is  to  have  a  spot  where  the  grass 
does  not  grow  well  —  a  spot  shaped  something  like  a  man.  That  likewise  sug¬ 
gests  the  essentially  horrible  and  unholy  nature  of  what  lies  beneath.  One  other 
thing  —  you  are  aware,  I  suppose,  that  fastidious  technicians  frown  on  the  de¬ 
lineation  of  incidents  which  leave  no  survivor  to  tell  about  them;  since  a  story 
seems  much  less  convincing  when  it  flatly  contradicts  all  conceivable  possibility. 
Careful  authors  always  avoid  killing  off  all  the  witnesses  or  destroying  all  the 
evidence  of  a  given  scene  or  happening  —  for  if  all  record  is  lost,  how  is  the 
teller  of  the  tale  supposed  to  know  about  it?  .  .  . 

“  ‘Now  you  have  no  way  to  explain  how  you  know  what  Larkins  saw  or 
what  his  actions  in  the  death  scene  were.  Could  you  have  him  call  somebody 
up  on  the  telephone  toward  the  last,  and  gasp  out  an  account  of  what  was  con¬ 
fronting  him?  Could  you  have  him  attempt  to  photograph  the  thing  and  have 
the  negative  developed  afterward?  Coula  you  nave  him  try  to  scrawl  a  last 
message  to  the  world?  Something  like  that  is  really  necessary  if  the  story  is  to 
be  perfect.  Lastly  —  I’d  use  a  little  more  care,  detail,  and  striking  novelty  and 
originality  in  describing  the  monster.  I  spent  enormous  pains  thinking  out  Cthul- 
hu,  and  still  more  in  describing  the  two  blasphemous  entities  that  figure  in  my 
new  Dunwich  Horror.  It’s  a  gocd  thing  to  work  slowly  and  carefully,  and  never 
to  set  anything  down  until  you  can  see  and  feel  it  poignantly  and  realistically 
yourself.  My  advice  to  all  writers  is  to  cut  out  all  dash”  and  jauntiness  with 
a  relentless  hand;  using  instead  a  quiet,  deadly  objectivity  and  seriousness  of 
tone,  and  a  careful  and  scholarly  attention  to  plausibility  and  accuracy  of  de¬ 
tail,  which  will  serve  in  the  end  to  build  up  a  haunting  atmosphere  of  con¬ 
vincingness  and  realism!  But  don’t  mind  these  trifling  remarks  on  details.  It’s 
a  fine  story,  and  Wright  will  surely  take  it  if  he  has  any  sense.  .  .  .  Wright 
is  really  an  admirably  amiable,  conscientious  and  honourable  person  despite  his 
limitations  in  critical  judgment.’ 

"When  Wright  rejected  The  Pacer  at  first  —  he  later  accepted  it  —  Love- 
craft  warned  against  taking  Wright’s  suggestions  for  alterations.  ‘It  never  pays 
to  mix  in  any  ideas  save  your  own.  Suggestions  are  all  right  when  you  have  the 
privilege  of  weighing  them  and  accepting  only  those  which  your  own  judg¬ 
ment  backs  up  —  but  don’t  take  anybody  else’s  advice  when  you  really  have  a 
strong  feeling  that  your  original  version  is  the  proper  thing.’  —  advice  which 
I  found  sound  throughout  die  years  and  all  the  books  since  then,  and  which 
today  I  pass  on  to  the  students  to  my  various  creative  writing  classes.” 

(From  “Lovecraft  As  Mentor”,  by  August  Derleth,  in  the  volume  The 
Shuttered  Room  ir  Other  Pieces  by  H.  P.  Lovecraft  (&  Divers  Hands),  copyright 
1959  by  August  Derleth.  Arkham  House:  Publisher’s,  Sauk  City,  Wisconsin; 
$5.00.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Arkham  House.) 


^Ae  cHloth 

if  JJ.  Q.  Weds 


From  the  collection.  The  Stolen  Bacillus  and  Other  Incidents,  which 
appeared  in  1896,  this  is  one  of  Wells’  early  explorations  into  psychol¬ 
ogy.  When  it  was  reprinted  in  Amazing  Stories  in  1928,  T.  O’Conor 
Sloane  wrote:  “It  is  a  queer  as  well  as  startling  penetration  into  the 
realm  of  the  human  mind,  and  this^  sort  of  thing  occurs  very  much 
more  often  than  most  of  us  realize.”  Since  then,  of  course,  the  sub¬ 
conscious  has  been  mined  heavily  in  popular  fiction,  so  that  The  Moth 
is  by  no  means  as  startling  as  it  might  have  been  then;  but  it  remains 
effective,  and  we  were  struck  by  the  thought  of  how  little  change 
would  be  needed  in  order  to  pass  it  off  as  a  contemporary  work,  writ¬ 
ten  for  British  readers. 


PROBABLY  YOU  have  heard 
of  Hapley  —  not  W.  T.  Hapley, 
the  son,  but  the  celebrated  Hap¬ 
ley,  the  Hapley  of  Periplaneta 
Hapliia,  Hapley  the  entomolo¬ 
gist. 

If  so,  you  know  at  least  of  the 
great  feud  between  Hapley  and 
Professor  Pawkins,  though  cer¬ 
tain  of  its  consequences  may  be 
new  to  you.  For  those  who  have 
not,  a  word  or  two  of  explana¬ 


tion  is  necessary,  which  the  idle 
reader  may  go  over  with  a 
glancing  eye  if  his  indolence  so 
incline  him. 

.  It  is  amazing  how  very  widely 
diffused  is  the  ignorance  of  such 
really  important  matters  as  this 
Hapley-Pawkins  feud.  Those 
epoch-making  controversies,  a- 
gain,  that  have  convulsed  the 
Geological  Society  are,  I  verily 
believe,  almost  entirely  un- 


93 


94 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


known  outside  the  fellowship  of 
that  body.  I  have  heard  men  of 
fair  general  education  evep  re¬ 
fer  to  the  great  scenes  at  these 
meetings  as  vestry-meeting 
squabbles.  Yet  the  great  hate  of 
the  English  and  Scotch  geolo¬ 
gists  has  lasted  now  half  a  cen¬ 
tury,  and  has  “left  deep  and 
abundant  marks  upon  the  body 
of  the  science.”  And  this  Hap- 
ley-Pawkins  business,  though 
perhaps  a  more  personal  affair, 
stirred  passions  as  profound,  if 
not  profounder.  Your  common 
man  has  no  conception  of  the 
zeal  that  animates  a  scientific 
investigator,  the  fury  of  contra¬ 
diction  you  can  arouse  in  him. 
It  is  the  odium  theologicum  in  a 
new  form.  There  are  men,  for 
instance,  who  would  gladly 
burn  Sir  Ray  Lankester  at 
Smithfield  for  his  treatment  of 
the  Mollusca  in  the  Encyclo¬ 
pedia.  That  fantastic  extension 
of  the  Cephalopods  to  cover  the 
Pteropods.  .  .  .  But  I  wander 
from  Hapley  and  Pawkins. 

It  began  years  and  years  ago 
with  a  revision  of  the  Microlep- 
idoptera  (whatever  these  may 
be )  by  Pawkins,  in  which  he  ex¬ 
tinguished  a  new  species  creat¬ 
ed  by  Hapley.  Hapley,  who  was 
always  quarrelsome,  replied  by 
a  stinging  impeachment  of  the 
entire  classification  of  PawkinS.® 


•“Remarks  on  a  Recent  Revision 
of  Microlepidoptera,”  Quart.  Jourti. 
Entomological  Soc.,  1863. 


Pawkins  in  his  “Rejoinder’t 
suggested  that  Hapley  s  micro¬ 
scope  was  as  defective  as  his 
power  of  observation,  and  call¬ 
ed  him  an  “irresponsible  medd¬ 
ler”  —  Hapley  was  not  a  profes¬ 
sor  at  that  time.  Hapley  in  his 
retort, $  spoke  of  “blundering 
collectors,”  and  described,  as  3 
inadvertently,  Pawkins’  revision 
as  “miracle  of  ineptitude.”  It 
was  war  to  the  knife.  However, 
it  would  scarcely  interest  the 
reader  to  detail  how  these  two 

eat  men  quarreled,  and  how 

e  split  between  them  widen¬ 
ed  until  from  the  Microlepidop¬ 
tera  they  were  at  war  upon  ev¬ 
ery  open  question  in  entomology. 
There  were  memorable  occa¬ 
sions.  At  times  the  Royal  Ento¬ 
mological  Society  meetings  re¬ 
sembled  nothing  so  much  as  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies.  On  the 
whole,  I  fancy  Pawkins  was 
nearer  the  truth  than  Hapley. 
But  Hapley  was  skillful  with  his 
rhetoric,  had  a  turn  for  ridicule 
rare  in  a  scientific  man,  was  en¬ 
dowed  with  vast  energy,  and 
had  a  fine  sense  of  injury  in  the 
matter  of  the  extinguished  spe¬ 
cies;  while  Pawkins  was  a  man 
of  dull  presence,  prosy  of 
speech,  in  shape  not  unlike  a 
water-barrel,  over-conscientious 
with  testimonials,  and  suspected 
of  jobbing  museum  appoint¬ 
ments.  So  the  young  men  gath- 

t “Rejoinder  to  Certain  Remarks,” 
etc.  Ibid.  1864. 

t “Further  Remarks,"  etc.  Ibid. 


The  Moth 


95 


ered  round  Hapley  and  applaud¬ 
ed  him.  It  was  a  long  struggle 
vicious  from  the  beginning  and 
growing  at  last  to  pitiless  antag¬ 
onism.  The  successive  turns  of 
fortune,  now  an  advantage  to 
one  side  and  now  to  another  — 
now  Hapley  tormented  by  some 
success  of  Pawkins,  and  now 
Pawkins  outshone  by  Hapley, 
belong  rather  to  the  history  of 
entomology  than  to  this  story. 

BUT  IN  1891  Pawkins,  whose 
health  had  been  bad  for  some 
time,  published  some  work  upon 
the  “mesoblast”  of  the  Death’s- 
Head  Moth.  What  the  mesoblast 
of  the  Death’s-Head  Moth  may 
be  does  not  matter  a  rap  in  this 
story.  But  the  work  was  far  be¬ 
low  his  usual  standard,  and 
gave  Hapley  an  opening  he  had 
coveted  for  years.  He  must  have 
worked  night  and  day  to  make 
the  most  of  his  advantage. 

In  an  elaborate  critique  he 
rent  Pawkins  to  tatters  —  one 
can  fancy  the  man’s  disordered 
black  hair,  and  his  queer  dark 
eyes  flashing  as  he  went  for  his 
antagonist  —  and  Pawkins  made 
a  reply,  halting,  ineffectual,  with 
painful  gaps  of  silence,  and  yet 
malignant.  There  was  no  mis¬ 
taking  his  will  to  wound  Hap¬ 
ley  nor  his  incapacity  to  do  it. 
But  few  of  those  who  heard  him 
7  I  was  absent  from  that  meet¬ 
ing  —  realized  how  ill  the  man 
was. 

Hapley  got  his  opponent 
down,  and  meant  to  finish  him. 


He  followed  with  a  brutal  at¬ 
tack  upon  Pawkins,  in  the  form 
of  a  paper  upon  the  develop¬ 
ment  of  moths  in  general,  a 
paper  showing  evidence  of  an 
extraordinary  amount  of  labor, 
couched  in  a  violently  contro¬ 
versial  tone.  Violent  as  it  was, 
an  editorial  note  witnesses  that 
it  was  modified.  It  must  have 
covered  Pawkins  with  shame  and 
confusion  of  face.  It  left  no  loop¬ 
hole;  it  was  murderous  in  argu¬ 
ment,  and  utterly  contemptuous 
in  tone;  an  awful  thing  for  the 
declining  years  of  a  man’s  ca¬ 
reer. 

The  world  of  entomologists 
waited  breathlessly  for  the  re¬ 
joinder  from  Pawkins.  He  would 
try  one,  for  Pawkins  had  always 
been  game.  But  when  it  came 
it  surprised  them.  For  the  rejoin¬ 
der  of  Pawkins  was  to  catch  in¬ 
fluenza,  proceed  to  pneumonia, 
and  die. 

It  was  perhaps  as  effectual  a 
reply  as  he  could  make  under 
the  circumstances,  and  largely 
turned  the  current  of  feeling 
against  Hapley.  The  very  peo¬ 
ple  who  had  most  gleefully 
cheered  on  those  gladiators  be¬ 
came  serious  at  the  consequence. 
There  could  be  no  reasonable 
doubt  the  fret  of  the  defeat  had 
contributed  to  the  death  of  Paw¬ 
kins.  There  was  a  limit  even  to 
scientific  controversy,  said  seri¬ 
ous  people.  Another  crushing 
attack  was  already  in  the  press 
and  appeared  on  the  day  before 
the  funeral.  I  don’t  think  Hapley 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


exerted  himself  to  stop  it.  Peo¬ 
ple  remembered  how  Hapley 
had  hounded  down  his  rival  apd 
forgot  that  rival’s  defects.  Scath¬ 
ing  satire  reads  ill  over  fresh 
mold.  The  thing  provoked  com¬ 
ment  in  the  daily  papers.  It  was 
that  made  me  think  you  had 
probably  heard  of  Hapley  and 
this  controversy.  But,  as  I  have 
already  remarked,  scientific 
workers  hve  very  much  in  a 
world  of  their  own;  half  the  peo¬ 
ple,  I  dare  say,  who  go  along 
Piccadilly  to  the  Academy  every 
year  could  not  tell  you  where 
the  learned  societies  abide. 
Many  even  think  that  research 
is  a  kind  of  happy-family  cage 
in  which  all  kinds  of  men  lie 
down  together  in  peace. 

IN  HIS  private  thoughts  Hap¬ 
ley  could  not  forgive  Pawkins 
for  dying.  In  the  first  place,  it 
was  a  mean  dodge  to  escape 
the  absolute  pulverization  Hap¬ 
ley  had  in  hand  for  him,  and  in 
the  second,  it  left  Hapley ’s  mind 
with  a  queer  gap  in  it.  For  twen¬ 
ty  years  he  had  worked  hard, 
sometimes  far  into  the  night, 
and  seven  days  a  week,  with 
microscope,  scalpel,  collecting- 
net,  and  pen,  and  almost  entire¬ 
ly  with  reference  to  Pawkins. 
The  European  reputation  he 
had  won  had  come  as  an  inci¬ 
dent  in  that  great  antipathy.  He- 
had  gradually  worked  up  to  a 
climax  in  this  last  controversy. 
It  had  killed  Pawkins,  but  it  had 
also  thrown  Hapley  out  of  gear, 


so  to  speak,  and  his  doctor  ad¬ 
vised  him  to  give  up  work  for  a 
time,  and  rest.  So  Hapley  went 
down  into  a  quiet  village  in 
Kent,  and  thought  day  and 
night  of  Pawkins  and  good 
things  it  was  now  impossible  to 
say  about  him. 

At  last  Hapley  began  to  real¬ 
ize  in  what  direction  the  preoc¬ 
cupation  tended.  He  determined 
to  make  a  fight  for  it,  and  start¬ 
ed  by  trying  to  read  novels.  But 
he  could  not  get  his  mind  off 
Pawkins,  white  in  the  face  and 
making  his  last  speech  —  every 
sentence  a  beautiful  opening  for 
Hapley.  He  turned  to  fiction  — 
and  found  it  had  no  grip  on  him. 
He  read  the  Island  Nights’  En¬ 
tertainments  until  his  “sense  of 
causation”  was  shocked  beyond 
endurance  by  the  Bottle  Imp. 
Then  he  went  to  Kipling,  and 
found  he  “proved  nothing”  be¬ 
sides  being  irreverent  and  vulgar. 
These  scientific  people  have 
their  limitations.  Then  unhap¬ 
pily  he  tried  Besant’s  Inner 
House,  and  the  opening  chapter 
set  his  mind  upon  learned  soci¬ 
eties  and  Pawkins  at  once. 

So  Hapley  turned  to  chess, 
and  found  it  a  little  more  sooth¬ 
ing.  He  soon  mastered  the 
moves  and  the  chief  gambits  and 
commoner  closing  positions,  and 
began  to  beat  the  Vicar.  But 
then  the  cylindrical  contours  of 
the  opposite  king  began  to  re¬ 
semble  Pawkins  standing  up 
and  gasping  ineffectually  a- 


The  Moth  97 


gainst  checkmate,  and  Hapley 
decided  to  give  up  chess. 

Perhaps  the  study  of  some 
new  branch  of  science  would 
after  all  be  better  diversion.  The 
best  rest  is  change  of  occupa¬ 
tion.  Hapley  determined  to 
plunge  at  diatoms,  and  had  one 
of  his  smaller  microscopes  and 
Halibut’s  monograph  sent  down 
from  London.  He  thought  that 
perhaps  if  he  could  get  up  a 
vigorous  quarrel-  with  ffalibut, 
he  might  be  able  to  begin  life 
afresh  and  forget  Pawkins.  And 
very  soon  he  was  hard  at  work 
in  his  habitual  strenuous  fashion 
at  these  microscopic  denizens  of 
the  wayside  pool. 

It  was  pn  third  day  of  the 
diatoms  that  Hapley  became 
aware  of  a  novel  addition  to  the 
local;  fauna.  He  was  working 
late  at  the  microscope,  and  the 
only  light  in  the  room  was  the 
brilliant  little  lamp  with  the 
special  form  of  green  shade. 
Like  all  experienced  microscop- 
ists,  he  kept  both  eyes  open.  It 
is  the  only  way  to  avoid  exces¬ 
sive  fatigue.  One  eve  was  over 
the  instrument,  and  bright  and 
distinct  before  that  was  the  cir¬ 
cular  field  of  the  microscope,  a- 
cross  which  a  brown  diatom  was 
slowly  moving.  With  the  other 
eye  Hapley  saw,  as  it  were, 
without  seeing.  He  was  Pnly 
dimly  conscious  of  the  brass  side 
°f  the  instrument,  the  illumin¬ 
ated  part  of  the  tablecloth,  a 
sheef  of  note-paper,  the  foot  of 


the  lamp,  and  the  darkened 
room  beyond. 

Suddenly  his  attention  drifted 
from  one  eye  to  the  other.  The 
tablecloth  was  of  the  material 
called  tapestry  by  shopmen,  and 
rather  brightly  colored.  The  pat¬ 
tern  seemed  displaced,  and  there 
was  a  vibrating  movement  of 
the  colors  at  this  point. 

Hapley  suddenly  moved  his 
head  back  and  looked  with  both 
eyes.  His  mouth  fell  open  with 
astonishment. 

It  was  a  large  moth  or  butter¬ 
fly;  its  wings  spread  in  butter¬ 
fly  fashion! 

It  was  strange  it  should  be  in 
the  room  at  all,  for  the  windows 
were  closed.  Strange  that  it 
should  match  the  tablecloth. 
Stranger  far  that  to  him  Hapley, 
the  great  entomologist,  it  was 
altogether  unknown.  There  was 
no  delusion.  It  was  crawling 
slowly  towards  the  foot  of  the 
lamp. 

“New  Genus,  by  heavens!  And 
in  England!”  said  Hapley,  star¬ 
ing. 

Then  he  suddenly  thought  of 
Pawkins.  Nothing  would  have 
maddened  Pawkins  more  .  .  . 
And  Pawkins  was  dead! 

Something  about  the  head 
and  body  of  the  insect  became 
singularly  suggestive  of  Pawkins, 
just  as  the  chess  king  had  been. 

"Confound  Pawkins!”  said 
Hapley.  “But  I  must  catch  this.” 
And  looking  round  him  for  some 
means  of  capturing  the  moth,  he 
rose  slowly  out  of  his  chair. 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


Suddenly  the  insect  rose,  struck 
the  edge  of  the  lampshade  — 
Hapley  heard  the  “ping”  —  and 
vanished  into  the  shadow. 

In  a  moment  Hapley  had 
whipped  off  the  shade,  so  that 
the  whole  room  was  illuminated. 
The  thing  had  disappeared,  but 
soon  his  practiced  eye  detected 
it  upon  the  wallpaper  near  the 
door.  He  went  towards  it  poising 
the  lampshade  for  capture.  Be¬ 
fore  he  was  within  striking  dis¬ 
tance,  however,  it  had  risen  and 
was  fluttering  round  the  room. 
After  the  fashion  of  its  kind,  it 
flew  with  sudden  starts  and 
turns,  seeming  to  vanish  here 
and  reappear  there.  Once  Hap¬ 
ley  struck,  and  missed;  then 
again. 

The  third  time  he  hit  his 
microscope.  The  instrument 
swayed,  struck  and  overturned 
the  lamp,  and  fell  noisily  upon 
the  floor.  The  lamp  turned  over 
on  the  table  and,  very  luckily, 
went  out.  Hapley  was  left  in  the 
dark.  With  a  start  he  felt  the 
strange  moth  blunder  into  his 
face. 

It  was  maddening.  He  had  no 
lights.  If  he  opened  the  door  of 
the  room  the  thing  would  get 
away.  In  the  darkness  he  saw 
Pawkins  quite  distinctly  laugh¬ 
ing  at  him.  Pawkins  had  ever  an 
oily  laugh.  He  swore  furiously 
and  stamped  his  foot  on  the 
floor. 

There  was  a  timid  rapping  at 
the  door. 

Then  it  opened,  perhaps  a 


foot,  and  very  slowly.  The 
alarmed  face  of  the  landlady 
appeared  behind  a  pink  candle 
flame;  she  wore  a  nightcap  over 
her  gray  hair  and  had  some  pur¬ 
ple  garment  over  her  shoulders. 

“What  was  that  fearful  smash?” 
she  said.  “Has  anything  .  .  .” 
The  strange  moth  appeared  flut¬ 
tering  about  the  chink  of  the 
door. 

“Shut  that  door!”  said  Hapley, 
and  suddenly  rushed  at  her. 

The  door  slammed  hastily. 
Hapley  was  left  alone  in  the 
dark.  Then  in  the  pause  he 
heard  his  landlady  scuttle  up¬ 
stairs,  lock  her  door,  and  drag 
something  heavy  across  the 
room  ana  put  against  it. 

IT  BECAME  evident  to  Hap¬ 
ley  that  his  conduct  and  appear¬ 
ance  had  been  strange  and  a- 
larming.  Confound  the  moth! 
and  Pawkins!  However,  it  was  a 
pity  to  lose  the  moth  now.  He 
felt  his  way  into  the  hall  and 
found  the  matches,  after  sending 
his  hat  down  upon  the  floor 
with  a  noise  like  a  drum.  With 
the  lighted  candle  he  returned 
to  the  sitting-room.  No  moth  was 
to  be  seen.  Yet  once  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  it  seemed  that  the  thing 
was  fluttering  round  his  head. 
Hapley  very  suddenly  decided 
to  give  up  the  moth  and  go  to 
bed.  But  he  was  excited.  All 
night  long  his  sleep  was  broken 
by  dreams  of  the  moth,  Pawkins, 
and  his  landlady.  Twice  in  the 


The  Moth 


night  he  turned  out  and  soused 
;  his  head  in  cold  water. 

One  thing  was  very  clear  to 
|  him.  His  landlady  could  not  pos- 
|  sibly  understand  about  the 
v  strange  moth,  especially  as  he 
had  failed  to  catch  it.  No  one 
but  an  entomologist  would  un- 
£'  derstand  quite  how  he  felt.  She 
was  probably  frightened  at  his 
.  behavior,  and  yet  he  failed  to 
see  how  he  could  explain  it.  He 
i/  decided  to  say  nothing  further 
about  the  events  of  last  night. 
t  After  breakfast  he  saw  her  in  her 
|  garden,  and  decided  to  go  out 
and  talk  to  reassure  her.  He 
ji'  talked  to  her  about  beans  and 
■;  potatoes,  bees,  caterpillars,  and 
the  price  of  fruit.  She  replied  in 
her  usual  manner,  but  she  look- 
'  ed  at  him  suspiciously,  and  kept 
'  walking  as  he  walked,  so  that 
;  there  was  always  a  bed  of  flow- 
11  ers,  or  a  row  of  beans,  or  some- 
P  tiling  of  the  sort,  between  them. 

After  a  while  he  began  to  feel 
K  singularly  irritated  at  this,  and, 
H  to  conceal  his  vexation,  went  in- 
!:■  doors  and  presently  went  out  for 
|  a  walk 

The  moth,  or  butterfly,  trail- 
k,  ing  an  odd  flavor  of  Pawkins 
I  with  it,  kept  coming  into  that 
walk  though  he  did  his  best  to 
keep  his  mind  off  it.  Once  he 
|  saw  it,  quite  distinctly,  with  its 
E,  wings  flattened  out,  upon  the  old 
stone  wall  that  runs  along  the 
west  edge  of  the  park,  but  going 
up  to  it  he  found  it  was  only 
two  lumps  of  gray  and  yellow 
lichen.  "This,”  said  Hapley,  “is 


the  reverse  of  mimicry.  Instead 
of  a  butterfly  looking  like  a 
stone,  here  is  a  stone  looking 
like  a  butterfly!”  Once  some¬ 
thing  hovered  and  fluttered 
round  his  head,  but  by  an  effort 
of  will  he  drove  that  impression 
out  of  his  mind  again. 

In  the  afternoon  Hapley  call¬ 
ed  upon  the  Vicar,  and  argued 
with  him  upon  theological  ques¬ 
tions.  They  sat  in  the  little  arbor 
covered  with  brier,  and  smoked 
as  they  wrangled.  “Look  at  that 
moth!”  said  Hapley,  suddenly, 
pointing  to  the  edge  of  the 
wooden  table. 

“Where?”  said  the  Vicar. 

“You  don’t  see  a  moth  on  the 
edge  of  the  table  there?”  said 
Hapley. 

“Certainly  not,”  said  the  Vicar. 

Hapley  was  thunderstruck. 
He  gasped.  The  Vicar  was  star¬ 
ing  at  him.  Clearly  the  man  saw 
nothing.  “The  eye  of  faith  is  no 
better  than  the  eye  of  science,” 
said  Hapley  awkwardly. 

“I  don’t  see  your  point,”  said 
the  Vicar,  thinking  it  was  part 
of  the  argument. 

That  night  Hapley  found  the 
moth  crawling  over  his  counter¬ 
pane.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  in  his  shirtsleeves  and  rea¬ 
soned  with  himself.  Was  it  pure 
hallucination?  He  knew  he  was 
slipping,  and  he  battled  for  his 
satjity  with  the  same  silent  ener¬ 
gy  he  had  formerly  displayed 
against  Pawkins.  So  persistent  is 
mental  habit  that  he  felt  as  if 
it  were  still  a  struggle  with  Paw- 


100 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


kins.  He  was  well  versed  in  psy¬ 
chology.  He  knew  that  such  vis¬ 
ual  illusions  do  come  as  a  result 
of  mental  strain.  But  the  point 
was,  he  did  not  only  see  the 
moth,  he  had  heard  it  when  it 
touched  the  edge  of  the  lamp¬ 
shade  and  afterwards  when  it  hit 
against  the  wall,  and  he  had  felt 
it  strike  his  face  in  the  dark. 

He  looked  at  it.  It  was  not  at 
all  dream-like  but  perfectly  clear 
and  solid-looking  in  the  candle¬ 
light.  He  saw  the  hairy  body  and 
the  short  feathery  antennae,  the 
jointed  legs,  even  a  place  where 
the  down  was  rubbed  from  the 
wing.  He  suddenly  felt  angry 
with  himself  for  being  afraid  of 
a  little  insect. 

HIS  LANDLADY  had  got  the 
servant  to  sleep  with  her  that 
night,  because  she  was  afraid  to 
be  alone.  In  addition  she  had 
locked  the  door  and  put  the 
chest  of  drawers  against  it.  They 
listened  and  talked  in  whispers 
after  they  had  gone  tq  bed,  but 
nothing  occurred  to  aWrm  them. 
About  eleven  they  had  ventured 
to  put  the  candle  out  and  had 
both  dozed  off  to  sleep.  They 
woke  with  a  start,  and  sat  up  in 
bed,  listening  in  the  darkness. 

Then  they  heard  slippered 
feet  going  to  and  fro  in  Hapley’s 
room.  A  chair  was  overturned 
and  there  was  a  violent  dab  at 
the  wall.  Then  a  china  mantel 
ornament  smashed  upon  the  fen¬ 
der.  Suddenly  the  door  of  the 
room  opened,  and  they  heard 


him  upon  the  landing.  They 
clung  to  one  another,  listening. 
He  seemed  to  be  dancing  upon 
the  staircase.  Now  he  would  go 
down  three  or  four  steps  quick¬ 
ly,  then  up  again,  then  hurry 
down  into  the  hall.  They  heard 
the  umbrella-stand  go  over,  and 
the  fanlight  break.  Then  the 
bolt  shot  and  the  chain  rattled. 
He  was  opening  the  door. 

They  hurried  to  the  window. 
It  was  a  dim,  gray  night;  an  al¬ 
most  unbroken  sheet  of  watery 
cloud  was  sweeping  across  the 
moon,  and  the  hedge  and  trees 
in  front  of  the  house  were  black 
against  the  pale  roadway.  They 
saw  Hapley,  looking  like  a  ghost 
in  his  shirt  and  white  trousers, 
running  to  and  fro  in  the  road 
and  beating  the  air.  Now  he 
would  stop,  now  he  would  dart 
very  rapidly  at  something  invisi¬ 
ble,  now  he  would  move  upon 
it  with  stealthy  strides.  At  last 
he  went  out  of  sight  up  the  road 
towards  the  down.  Then  while 
they  argued  who  should  go  down 
and  lock  the  door,  he  returned. 
He  was  walking  very  fast,  and 
he  came  straight  into  the  house, 
closed  the  door  carefully,  and 
went  quietly  up  to  his  bedroom. 
Then  everything  was  silent. 

“Mrs.  Colville,”  said  Hapley, 
calling  down  the  staircase  next 
morning.  “I  hope  I  did  not  alarm 
you  last  night.” 

“You  may  well  ask  that!”  said 
Mrs.  Colville. 

“The  fact  is,  I  am  a  sleep¬ 
walker,  and  the  last  two  nights 


The  Moth 


101 


I  have  been  without  my  sleeping 
mixture.  There  is  nothing  to  be 
alarmed  about,  really.  I  am  sor¬ 
ry  made  such  an  ass  of  myself. 
I  will  go  over  the  down  to  Shore- 
ham,  and  get  some  stuff  to  make 
me  sleep  soundly.  I  ou^ht  to 
have  done  that  yesterday.’ 

But  halfway  over  the  down, 
by  the  chalk  pits,  the  moth  came 
upon  Hapley  again.  He  went  on, 
trying  to  keep  his  mind  upon 
chess  problems,  but  it  was  no 
good.  The  thing  fluttered  into 
his  face,  and  he  struck  at  it  with 
his  hat  in  self-defense.  Then 
rage,  the  old  rage  —  the  rage  he 
had  so  often  felt  against  Paw- 
kins  —  came  upon  him  again.  He 
went  on,  leaping  and  striking  at 
the  eddying  insect.  Suddenly  he 
trod  on  nothing,  and  fell  head¬ 
long. 

There  was  a  gap  in  his  sensa¬ 
tions,  and  Hapley  found  himself 
sitting  on  the  heap  of  flints  in 
front  of  the  opening  of  the  chalk¬ 
pits,  with  a  leg  twisted  back  un¬ 
der  him.  The  strange  moth  was 
still  fluttering  round  his  head. 
He  struck  at  it  with  his  hand, 
and  turning  his  head  saw  two 
men  approaching  him.  One  was 
the  village  doctor.  It  occurred 
to  Hapley  that  this  was  lucky. 
Then  it  came  into  his  mind  with 
extraordinary  vividness,  that  no 
one  would  ever  be  able  to  see 
the  strange  moth  except  himself, 
and  that  it  behooved  him  to 
keep  silent  about  it. 

LATE  THAT  night,  however, 


after  his  broken  leg  was  set,  he 
was  feverish  and  forgot  his  self- 
restraint.  He  was  lying  flat  on 
■  his  bed,  and  he  began  to  run  his 
eyes  round  the  room  to  see  if 
the  moth  was  still  about  He  tried 
not  to  do  this,  but  it  was  no 

§ood.  He  soon  caught  sight  of 
le  thing  resting  close  to  his 
hand,  by  the  night-light,  on  the 
green  tablecloth.  The  wings 
quivered.  With  a  sudden  wave 
of  anger  he  smote  at  it  with  his 
fist,  and  the  nurse  woke  up  with 
a  shriek.  He  had  missed  it. 

“That  moth!”  he  said;  and 
then:  “It  was  fancy.  Nothing!” 

All  the  time  he  could  see  quite 
clearly  the  insect  going  round 
the  cornice  and  darting  across 
the  room,  and  he  could  also  see 
that  the  nurse  saw  nothing  of  it 
and  looked  at  him  strangely.  He 
must  keep  himself  in  hand.  He 
knew  he  was  a  lost  man  if  he 
did  not  keep  himself  in  hand. 
But  as  the  night  waned  the  fever 
grew  upon  him,  and  the  very 
dread  he  had  of  seeing  the  moth 
made  him  see  it.  About  five,  just 
as  the  dawn  was  gray,  he  tried 
to  get  out  of  bed  and  catch  it, 
though  his  leg  was  afire  with 
pain.  The  nurse  had  to  struggle 
with  him. 

On  account  of  this,  they  tied 
him  down  to  the  bed.  At  this 
the  moth  grew  bolder,  and  once 
he  felt  it  settle  in  his  hair.  Then, 
because  he  struck  out  violently 
with  his  arms,  they  tied  these 
also.  At  this  the  moth  came  and 
crawled  over  his  face,  and  Hap- 


102 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


ley  wept,  swore,  screamed,  pray¬ 
ed  for  them  to  take  it  off  him, 
unavailingly. 

The  doctor  was  a  blockhead,  a 
just-qualified  general  practition¬ 
er,  and  quite  ignorant  of  mental 
science.  He  simply  said  there 
was  no  moth.  Had  he  possessed 
the  wit,  he  might  still  perhaps 
have  saved  Haply  from  his  fate 
by  entering  into  his  delusion, 
and  covering  his  face  with  gauze 
as  he  prayed  might  be  done. 
But,  as  I  say,  the  doctor  was  a 
blockhead;  and  until  the  leg  was 
healed  Hapley  was  kept  tied  to 
his  bed,  with  the  imaginary  moth 


crawling  over  him.  It  never  left 
him  while  he  was  awake  and  it 
grew  to  a  monster  in  his  dreams. 
While  he  was  awake  he  longed 
for  sleep,  and  from  sleep  he 
awoke  screaming. 

So  now  Hapley  is  spending 
the  remainder  of  his  days  in  a 
padded  room,  worried  by  a 
moth  that  no  one  else  can  see. 
The  asylum  doctor  calls  it  hal¬ 
lucination;  but  Hapley,  when  he 
is  in  his  easier  mood  and  can 
talk,  says  it  is  the  ghost  of  Paw- 
kins,  and  consequently,  a  unique 
specimen  and  well  worth  the 
trouble  of  catching. 


A  reader  asks  why  we  do  not  announce  more  than 
one  story  on  our  “coming  next  issue”  page.  One  reason 
for  this  is  our  memory  of  the  times  when  we  saw  a 
story  announced  for  the  next  issue  of  a  science  fiction 
magazine,  our  eager  awaiting  of  the  next  issue,  and  our 
disappointment  when  we  found  it  was  not  there.  “Sony, 
crowded  out”,  we’d  read;  and  sometimes  the  story  would 
appear  in  yet  another  month,  and  sometimes  it  would 
be  several  months. 

However,  we  can  tell  you  about  a  few  stories  that  we 
hope  to  present  in  our  next  issue,  which  will  be  Volume 
2,  Number  1.  There  is  The  Phantom  Farmhouse,  by  Sea- 
bury  Quinn,  which  has  appeared  on  several  request  lists; 
another  asked-for  tale  is  The  Thing  From  —  Outside,  by 
George  Allan  England.  There  are  new  stories  by  Wal¬ 
lace  West  and  Joseph  Payne  Brennan.  But,  if  you’ll  ex¬ 
cuse  us,  we’ll  stop  now  while  we  still  may  be  in  the 
realm  of  the  feasible. 


Tito  S)oor  To  ^Saturn 


l»  CLd  _JAt  on  Smith 


Early  in  September  1930,  science  fiction  fans  were  dazzled  by  the 
appearance  of  the  October  issue  of  Wonder  Stories,  bearing  one  of 
Frank  R.  Paul’s  most  vivid  coyers  —  a  scene  where  a  huge  plant  on  an 
alien  planet  has  seized  an  explorer  and  is  drawing  him  into  its  flower 
mouth.  The  story  was  Marooned  in  Andromeda  by  Clark  Ashton  Smith, 
who  was  seen  frequently  in  that  magazine  and  its  quarterly  thereafter. 
Readers  of  Weird  Tales  had  encountered  numerous  poems  by  CAS 
(including  translations  from  Baudelaire),  and  one  short  story.  The 
Ninth  Skeleton,  had  appeared  in  1928,  but  1930  was  the  year  that  the 
stream  of  tales  which  were  to  be  one  of  the  hallmarks  of  WT’s  appeal 
really  began,  with  a  sardonic  tale  of  ecclesiastic  turptitude  and  a 
lamia  ( The  End  of  the  Story.)  Gentle  satire  on  misbehavior  of  the  re¬ 
ligious  ( both  Christian  and  imaginary  pagan )  forms  one  vein  of  Smith’s 
fiction.  These  tales  revive  the  gentle  but  nonetheless  biting  tone  of 
mediaeval  tales  of  monastic  and  clerical  irregularity,  which  are  amus¬ 
ing  and  pointed,  but  do  not  have  the  bitterness  of  later  anti-clerical 
writing.  Being  fantasy,  of  course  magic  and  sorcery  play  a  large  part 
in  these  tales,  and  the  logic  of  them  is  such  that  inquisitional  endeav¬ 
ors  often  enter  the  plots.  Despite  the  tide,  the  present  tale  cannot  be 
considered  science  fiction  in  any  sense,  as  no  such  Saturn  ever  existed. 
Most  of  Clark  Ashton  Smith’s  published  short  stories  and  novelets  have 
appeared  in  three  collectibns  issued  by  Arkham  House.  The  first  two. 
Out  of  Space  and  Time,  and  Lost  Worlds,  are  out  of  print,  but  the 
third.  Genius  Loci,  can  still  be  obtained  from  Arkham  House,  Publish¬ 
er’s,  Sauk  City,  Wisconsin  for  $3.00.  Our  thanks  to  Doug  Bodkin  for 
helping  us  decide  which  of  the  many  Smith  tales  we  wanted  to  offer 
you  would  be  presented  first 


Copyright  1931  by  The  Clayton  Magazines,  Inc.;  Copyright  1944  by 
Clark  Ashton  Smith;  by  permission  of  Arkham  House. 


103 


104 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


WHEN  MORGHI,  the  high 
priest  of  the  goddess  Yhounden, 
together  with  twelve  of  his  most 
ferocious  and  efficient  under¬ 
lings,  came  at  morning  twilight 
to  seek  the  infamous  heretic, 
Eibon,  in  his  house  of  black 
gneiss  on  a  headland  above  the 
northern  main,  they  were  sur¬ 
prised  as  well  as  disappointed 
to  find  him  absent. 

Their  surprise  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  they  had  every  inten¬ 
tion  of  taking  him  unawares; 
for  all  their  plots  against  Eibon 
had  been  carried  on  with  me¬ 
ticulous  privacy  in  underground 
vaults  with  sound-proof  bolted 
doors;  and  they  themselves  had 
made  the  long  journey  to  his 
house  in  a  single  night,  immedi- 
atly  following  the  hour  of  his 
condemnation.  They  were  disap¬ 
pointed  because  the  formidable 
writ  of  arrest,  with  symbolic 
flame-etched  runes  on  a  scroll 
of  human  skin,  was  now  useless; 
and  because  there  seemed  to  be 
no  early  prospect  of  trying  out 
the  ingenious  agonies,  the  intri¬ 
cately  harrowing  ordeals  which 
■they  had  devisee!  for  Eibon  with 
such  care. 

Morghi  was  especially  disap¬ 
pointed;  and  the  malisons  which 
he  muttered  when  the  empti¬ 
ness  of  the  topmost  room  had 
revealed  itself,  were  of  trulv  ca¬ 
balistic  length  and  tearfulness. 
Eibon  was  his  chief  rival  in  wi¬ 
zardry,  and  was  acquiring  alto¬ 
gether  too  much  fame  and  pres¬ 
tige  among  the  peoples  of  Mhu 


Thulan,  that  ultimate  peninsula 
of  the  Hyperborean  continent. 
So  Morghi  had  been  glad  to 
believe  certain  malignant  ru¬ 
mors  concerning  Eibon  and  to 
utilize  them  in  the  charges  he 
had  preferred. 

These  rumors  were,  that  Eibon 
was  a  devotee  of  the  long  dis¬ 
credited  heathen  god,  Zhothaq- 
quah,  whose  worship  was  incal¬ 
culably  older  than  man;  and 
that  Eibon’s  magic  was  drawn 
from  his  unlawful  affiliation  with 
this  dark  deity,  who  had  come 
down  by  way  of  other  worlds 
from  a  foreign  universe,  in  pri¬ 
meval  times  when  Earth  was 
still  no  more  than  a  steaming 
morass.  The  power  of  Zhothaq- 
quah  was  still  feared;  and  it  was 
said  that  those  who  were  will¬ 
ing  to  forego  their  humanity  by 
serving  him  would  become  the 
heritors  of  antemundane  secrets, 
and  the  masters  of  a  knowledge 
so  awful  that  it  could  only  have 
been  brought  from  outlying  pla¬ 
nets  coevil  with  night  and 
chaos. 

THE  HOUSE  of  Eibon  was 
built  in  the  form  of  a  pentagon¬ 
al  tower,  and  possessed  five 
stories,  including  the  two  that 
were  underground.  All,  of 
course,  had  been  searched  with 
painstaking  thoroughness;  and 
the  three  servants  of  Eibon  had 
been  tortured  with  a  slow  drip 
of  boiling-hot  asphaltum  to 
make  them  reveal  their  master’s 


The  Door  To  Saturn 


105 


ft  whereabouts.  Their  continued 
denial  of  all  knowledge,  after  a 
half  hour  of  this,  was  taken  as 
proof  that  they  were  genuinely 
I  ignorant. 

No  sign  of  a  subterranean 

(passage  was  unearthed  by  delv¬ 
ing  in  the  walls  and  floor  of  the 
lower  rooms;  though  Morghi 
had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  re- 
'{  move  the  flagstones  beneath  an 
»  obscene  image  of  Zhothaqquah 
which  occupied  the  nethermost. 
I  This  he  had  done  with  extreme 
|  reluctance,  for  the  squat,  fur- 
covered  god,  with  his  bat-like 
■  features  and  sloth-like  body, 
was  fearsomely  abhorrent  to  die 
|  high  priest  of  the  elk-goddess, 
|  Yhoundeh. 

V  Returning  in  renewed  search 
to  the  highest  room  of  Eibon’s 
I  tower,  the  inquisitors  were  com- 
ft  pelled  -to  own  themselves  baf- 
|  fled.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
r  found  but  a  few'  articles  of  fum- 
I  iture,  some  antique  volumes 
i  on  conjuration  such  as  might  be 
;  owned  by  any  sorcerer,  some 
|  disagreeable  and  gruesome 
[  paintings  on  rolls  of  pterodactyl 
parchment,  and  certain  primi- 
‘  five  urns  and  sculptures  and 
[  totem-poles  of  the  sort  that  Ei- 
I  bon  had  been  so  fond  of  collect- 
[  ing.  Zhothaqquah,  in  one  form 
s  or  another,  was  represented  in 
f  most  of  these:  his  face  even 
[  leered  with  a  bestial  somno- 
[  lence  from  the  um-handles;  and 
I  he  was  to  be  found  in  half  the 
I  totems  (which  were  those  of 
I  sub-human  tribes)  along  with 


the  seal,  the  mammoth,  the 
giant  tiger  and  the  aurochs. 

•  Morghi  felt  that  the  charges  a- 
gainst  Eibon  were  now  substan¬ 
tiated  beyond  all  remaining 
doubt;  for  surely  no  one  who 
was  not  a  worshipper  of  Zho¬ 
thaqquah  would  care  to  own 
even  a  single  representation  of 
this  loathsome  entity. 

HOWEVER,  such  additional 
evidence  of  guilt,  no  matter  how 
significant  or  damnatory,  was  of 
small  help  in  finding  Eibon. 
Staring  from  the  windows  of 
the  topmost  chamber,  where  the 
walls  fell  sheer  to  the  cliff  and 
the  cliff  dropped  clear  on  two 
sides  to  a  raging  sea  four  hun¬ 
dred  feet  below,  Morghi  was 
driven  to  credit  his  rival  with 
superior  resources  of  magic. 
Otherwise,  die  man’s  disappear¬ 
ance  was  altogether  too  much 
of  a  mystery.  And  Morghi  had 
no  love  for  mysteries,  unless 
they  were  part  of  his  own  stock- 
in-trade. 

He  turned  from  the  window 
and  re-examined  the  room  with 
minutely  careful  attention.  Ei¬ 
bon  had  manifestly  used  it  as  a 
sort  of  study:  there  was  a  writ¬ 
ing-table  of  ivory,  with  reed- 
pens  knd  various-colored  inks 
in  little  earthen  pots;  and  there 
were  sheets  of  paper  made  from 
^  kind  of  calamite,  all  scribbled 
over  with  odd  astronomical  and 
astrological  calculations  that 
caused  Morghi  to  frown  because 
he  could  not  understand  them. 


106 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


On  each  of  the  five  walls 
there  hung  one  of  the  parch¬ 
ment  paintings,  all  of  which 
seemed  to  be  the  work  of  some 
aboriginal  race.  Their  themes 
were  blasphemous  and  repellent; 
and  Zhotnaqquah  figured  in  all 
of  them,  amia  forms  and  land¬ 
scapes  whose  abnormality  and 
sheer  unoouthness  may  have 
been  due  to  the  half-developed 
technique  of  the  primitive  art¬ 
ists.  Morghi  now  tore  them 
from  the  walls  one  by  one,  as  if 
he  suspected  that  Eibon  might 
in  some  manner  be  concealed 
behind  them. 

THE  WALLS  were  now  en¬ 
tirely  bare;  and  Morghi  consid- 
red  them  for  a  long  time,  amid 
the  respectful  silence  of  his  un¬ 
derlings.  A  queer  panel,  high  up 
in  the  southeastern  side  above 
the  writing-table,  had  been  re¬ 
vealed  by  the  removal  of  one  of 
the  paintings.  Morghi’s  heavy 
brows  met  in  a  long  black  bar 
as  he  eyed  this  panel.  It  was 
conspicuously  different  from  the 
rest  of  the  wall,  being  an  oval¬ 
shaped  inlay  of  some  reddish 
metal  that  was  neither  gold  nor 
copper  —  a  metal  that  displayed 
an  obscure  and  fleeting  fluores¬ 
cence  of  rare  colors  when  one 
peered  at  it  through  half-shut 
eyelids.  But  somehow  it  was  im¬ 
possible,  with  open  eyes,  even 
to  remember  the  colors  of  this 
fluorescence. 

Morghi  —  who,  perhaps,  was 
cleverer  and  more  perspicacious 


than  Eibon  had  given  him  cre¬ 
dit  for  being  —  conceived  a  sus- 
icion  that  was  apparently 
aseless  and  absurd,  since  the 
wall  containing  the  panel  was 
the  outer  wall  of  the  building, 
and  could  give  only  on  the  sky 
and  sea. 

He  climbed  upon  the  writing- 
table  and  struck  the  panel  with 
his  fist.  The  sensations  which  he 
felt,  and  the  result  of  the  blow, 
were  alike  astounding.  A  sense 
of  icy  cold  so  extreme  that  it 
was  hardly  distinguishable  from 
extreme  heat,  ran  along  his  hand 
and  arm  and  through  his  whole 
body  as  he  smote  the  unknown 
reddish  metal.  And  the  panel  it¬ 
self  swung  easily  outward,  as  if 
on  unseen  hinges,  with  a  high 
sonorous  clang  that  seemed  to 
fall  from  an  incomputable  dis¬ 
tance.  Beyond  it,  Morghi  saw 
that  there  was  neither  sky  nor 
sea  nor,  in  fact,  anything  he  had 
even  dreamed  of  in  his  most  out¬ 
rageous  nightmares.  .  .  . 

He  turned  to  his  companions. 
The  look  on  his  face  was  half 
amazement,  half  triumph. 

“Wait  here  till  I  return,”  he 
commanded,  and  leaped  head¬ 
long  through  the  open  panel. 

THE  CHARGES  that  had 
been  brought  against  Eibon 
were  indeed  true.  The  sagacious 
wizard,  in  his  lifelong  study  of 
laws  and  agencies,  both  natural 
and  supernatural,  had  taken  ac¬ 
count  of  the  myths  that  were 
prevalent  in  Mhu  Thulan  re- 


The  Door  To  Saturn 


_ „  Zhothaqquah,  and  had 

lought  it  conceivably  worth 
while  to  make  a  personal  invest¬ 
igation  of  this  obscure  pre-hu¬ 
man  entity. 

He  had  cultivated  the  ac¬ 
quaintance  of  Zhothaqquah, 
who,  in  the  desuetude  of  his 
worship,  was  now  driven  to  lead 
an  existence  wholly  subterrane¬ 
an;  he  had  offered  the  prescrib¬ 
ed  prayers,  had  made  the  sacri¬ 
fices  that  were  most  acceptable; 
and  the  strange,  sleepy  little 
god,  in  return  for  Eibon’s  inter¬ 
est  and  his  devotion,  had  con¬ 
fided  to  him  certain  information 
that  was  more  than  useful  in 
the  practice  of  the  black  arts. 
Also  he  had  presented  Eibon 
with  some  autobiographical 
data  that  confirmed  the  popular 
legends  in  more  explicit  detail. 
For  reasons  which  he  did  not 
specify,  he  had  come  to  Earth  in 
former  aeons  from  the  planet 
Cykranosh  (the  name  by  which 
Saturn  was  called  in  Mhu  Thu- 
lan);  and  Cykranosh  itself  had 
been  merely  a  way-station  in  his 
travels  from  remoter  worlds  and 
systems. 

As  a  special  reward,  after 
years  of  service  and  bumt-offer- 
ings,  he  presented  to  Eibon  a 
large  thin  oval  plate  of  some  ul¬ 
tra-telluric  metal,  instructing 
him  to  have  it  fitted  as  a  hinged 
panel  in  an  upper  room  of  his 
house.  The  panel,  if  swung  out¬ 
ward  from  the  wall  on  open  air, 
would  have  the  peculiar  pro¬ 
perty  of  giving  admittance  to 


107 

the  world  Cykranosh,  many  mil¬ 
lion  miles  away  in  space. 

According  to  the  vague  and 
somewhat  unsatisfactory  expla¬ 
nation  vouchsafed  by  the  god, 
this  panel,  being  partly  wrought 
from  a  kind  of  matter  which 
belonged  to  another  universe 
than  man’s,  possessed  uncom¬ 
mon  radiative  properties  that 
served  to  ally  it  with  some  high¬ 
er  dimension  of  space,  through 
which  the  distance  to  astronom¬ 
ically  remote  spheres  was  a 
mere  step. 

ZHOTHAQQUAH,  however, 
warned  Eibon  not  to  make  use 
of  the  panel  unless  in  time  of 
extreme  need,  as  a  means  of  es¬ 
cape  from  otherwise  inevitable 
danger;  for  it  would  be  difficult 
if  not  impossible  to  return  to 
Earth  from  Cykranosh  —  a 
world  where  Eibon  might-  find 
it  anything  but  easy  to  accli¬ 
mate  himself,  since  the  condi¬ 
tions  of  life  were  very  different 
from  those  in  Mhu  Thulan,  even 
though  they  did  not  involve  so 
total  an  inversion  of  all  terrene 
standards  and  norms  as  that 
which  prevailed  in  the  more  out¬ 
lying  planets. 

Some  of  Zhothaqquah’s  rela¬ 
tives  were  still  resident  in  Cy- ' 
kranosh  and  were  worshipped 
by  its  peoples;  and  Zhothaq- 
quah  told  Eibon  the  almost  un¬ 
pronounceable  name  of  the  most 
powerful  of  these  deities,  saying 
that  it  would  be  useful  to  him 
as  a  sort  of  password  if  he 


108 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


should  ever  need  to  visit  Cykra- 
nosh. 

The  idea  of  a  panel  that 
would  open  on  some  remote 
world  impressed  Eibon  as  being 
rather  fantastic,  not  to  say  far¬ 
fetched;  but  he  had  found  Zho- 
thaqquah  to  be  in  all  ways  and 
at  all  times  a  most  veracious  de¬ 
ity.  However,  he  made  no  trial 
of  the  panel’s  unique  virtues,  till 
Zhothaqquah  (who  maintained 
a  close  surveillance  of  all  under¬ 
ground  doings )  had  warned 
him  of  the  machinations  of 
Morghi  and  the  processes  of  ec¬ 
clesiastic  law  that  were  being  in¬ 
stituted  in  the  vaults  below  the 
temple  of  Yhoundeh. 

Knowing  as  he  did  the  power 
of  these  jealous  bigots,  Eibon 
decided  that  it  would  be  inju¬ 
dicious  to  the  point  of  folly  if 
he  were  to  let  himself  fall  into 
their  hands.  Bidding  a  short  and 
grateful  farewell  to  Zhothaq¬ 
quah,  and  collecting  a  small 
parcel  of  bread  and  meat  and 
wine,  he  retired  to  his  study  and 
climbed  upon  the  writing-table, 
Then,  lifting  aside  the  crude 
picture  of  a  scene  in  Cykranosh 
with  which  Zhohaqquah  had 
inspired  some  primeval  half-hu¬ 
man  artist,  he  pushed  open  the 
panel  it  had  served  to  conceal. 

EIBON  SAW  that  Zhothaq¬ 
quah  was  indeed  a  god  of  his 
word  for  the  scene  beyond  the 
panel  was  nothing  that  could 
ever  find  a  legitimate  place  in 
the  topography  of  Mhu  Thulan 


or  of  any  terrestrial  region.  It 
did  not  altogether  appeal  to 
him;  but  there  was  no  alterna¬ 
tive,  save  the  inquisitorial  cells 
of  the  goddess  Yhoundeh.  En¬ 
visaging  in  thought  the  various 
refinements  and  complications 
of  torture  which  Morghi  would 
have  now  prepared,  he  sprang 
through  the  opening  into  Cy¬ 
kranosh  with  an  agility  that  was 
quite  juvenile  for  a  wizard  of 
mature  years. 

It  was  only  a  step;  but  turn¬ 
ing  he  saw  that  all  trace  of  the 
panel  or  of  his  dwelling  had 
now  disappeared.  He  was  stand¬ 
ing  on  a  long  declivity  of  ashen 
soil,  down  which  a  sluggish 
stream  that  was  not  water,  Dut 
some  liquescent  metal  resem¬ 
bling  mercury,  ran  from  tremen¬ 
dous  unscalable  shoulders  and 
horns  of  the  mountain  heights 
above,  to  debouch  in  a  hill-sur¬ 
rounded  lake  of  the  same  liquid. 

The  slope  beneath  him  was 
lined  with  rows  of  peculiar  ob¬ 
jects;  and  he  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  whether  they  were 
trees,  mineral  forms  or  animal 
organisms,  since  they  appeared 
to  combine  certain  characteris¬ 
tics  of  all  these.  This  preternat¬ 
ural  landscape  was  appallingly 
distinct  in  every  detail,  under  a 
greenish-black  sky  that  was 
over-arched  from  end  to  end 
with  a  triple  cyclopean  ring  of 
dazzling  luminosity.  The  air  was 
cold,  and  Eibon  did  not  care 
for  its  sulphurescent  odor  or 
the  odd  puckery  sensation  it  left 


The  Door  To  Saturn 


in  his  nostrils  and  lungs.  And 
when  he  took  a  few  steps  on  the 
unattractive-looking  soil,  he 
found  that  it  had  the  disconcert¬ 
ing  friability  of  ashes  that  have 
dried  once  more  after  being 
wetted  with  rain. 

HE  STARTED  down  the 
slope,  half-fearing  that  some  of 
the  equivocal  objects  around 
him  would  reach  out  their  min¬ 
eral  boughs  or  arms  to  arrest  his 
progress.  They  seemed  to  be  a 
land  of  bluish-purple  obsidian 
cacti,  with  limbs  that  ended  in 
formidable  talon-like  spines, 
and  heads  that  were  altogether 
too  elaborate  for  either  fruits  or 
blossoms.  They  did  not  iftove  as 
he  passed  among  them;  but  he 
heard  a  faint  ana  singular  tink¬ 
ling  with  many  modulations  of 
tone,  that  preceded  and  follow¬ 
ed  him  along  the  slope.  Eibon 
conceived  the  uncomfortable  no¬ 
tion  that  they  were  holding  con¬ 
verse  with  each  other;  and  were 
perhaps  debating  what  should 
De  done  with  him  or  about  him. 

However,  he  reached  without 
mishap  or  hindrance  the  end  of 
the  declivity,  where  terraces 
and  ledges  of  decomposing  tarp, 
like  a  mighty  stairway  of  elder 
aeons,  had  rimmed  the  sunken 
lake  of  liquescent  metal.  Won¬ 
dering  as  to  the  way  he  should 
now  take,  Eibon  stood  irresolute 
on  one  of  the  ledges. 

His  train  of  conjecture  was 
broken  by  a  shadow  that  fell 
suddenly  athwart  him  and  lay 


109 

like  a  monstrous  blot  on  the 
crumbling  stone  at  his  feet.  He 
was  not  prepossessed  by  the 
shadow:  it  was  outrageously  de¬ 
fiant  of  all  known  esthetic  stand¬ 
ards;  and  its  malformation  and 
distortion  were  no  less  than  ex¬ 
travagant. 

He  turned  to  see  what  man¬ 
ner  of  creature  had  flung  the 
shadow.  This  being,  he  perceiv¬ 
ed,  was  not  easy  to  classify,  with 
its  ludicrously  short  legs,  its  ex¬ 
ceedingly  elongated  arms,  and 
its  round,  sleepy-looking  head 
that  was  pendulous  from  a  spher¬ 
ical  body,  as  if  it  were  turning  a 
somnambulistic  somersault.  But 
after  he  had  studied  it  a  while 
and  had  noted  its  furriness  and 
somnolent  expression,  he  began 
to  see  a  vague  though  inverted 
likeness  to  the  god  Zhothaq- 
quafi.  And  remembering  how 
Zhothaqquah  had  said  that  the 
form  assumed  by  himself  on 
Earth  was  not  altogether  that 
which  he  had  worn  in  Cykra- 
nosh,  Eibon  now  wondered  if 
this  entity  was  not  one  of  Zho- 
thaqquah’s  relatives. 

HE  WAS  trying  to  recall  the 
almost  inarticulable  name  that 
had  been  confided  to  him  by 
the  god  as  a  sort  of  password, 
when  the  owner  of  that  unusual 
shadow,  without  seeming  to 
npte  Eibon’s  presence,  began  a 
descent  of  the  terraces  and  ledg¬ 
es  toward  the  lake.  Its  locomo¬ 
tion  was  mainly  on  its  hands, 
for  the  absurd  legs  were  not 


110 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


half  long  enough  for  the  steps 
it  had  to  take. 

Arriving  at  the  lake-edge,  the 
creature  drank  of  the  fluid  me¬ 
tal  in  a  hearty  and  copious 
manner  that  served  to  convince 
Eibon  of  its  godship;  for  surely 
no  being  of  an  inferior  biologic 
order  would  quench  its  thirst 
with  a  beverage  so  extraordi¬ 
nary.  Then,  re-ascending  to  the 
ledge  where  Eibon  stood,  it 
paused  and  appeared  to  notice 
nim  for  the  first  time. 

Eibon  had  finally  remember¬ 
ed  the  outlandish  name  for 
which  he  was  groping. 

“Hziulquoigmnzhah,”  he  tried 
to  articulate.  Doubtless  the  re¬ 
sult  was  not  wholly  conformable 
to  Cykraoshian  rules;  but  Eibon 
did  the  best  he  could  with  the 
vocal  organs  at  his  command. 
His  auditor  seemed  to  recognize 
the  word,  for  it  peered  at  Eibon 
a  little  less  sleepily  than  before, 
with  its  inversely  situated  eyes; 
and  even  deigned  to  utter  some¬ 
thing  which  sounded  like  an  at¬ 
tempt  to  correct  his  pronuncia¬ 
tion.  Eibon  wondered  how  he 
was  ever  to  learn  such  a  lan¬ 
guage;  or,  having  learned  it, 
now  he  was  ever  to  pronounce 
it.  However,  it  heartened  him 
a  little  to  find  that  he  was  un¬ 
derstood  at  all. 

“Zhothaqquah,”  he  said,  re¬ 
peating  the  name  three  times  in 
his  most  orotund  incantatory 
manner. 

The  topsy-turvy  being  opened 
its  eyes  a  trifle  more,  and  again 


admonished  him,  uttering  the 
word  Zhothaqquah  with  an  in¬ 
describable  abbreviation  of 
vowels  and  thickening  of  conso¬ 
nants.  Then  it  stood  regarding 
him  for  a  while  as  if  in  doubt  or 
cogitation.  Finally  it  raised  one 
of  its  ell-long  arms  from  the 
ground  and  pointed  along  the 
shore,  where  the  mouth  of  a  low 
valley  was  discernible  among  the 
hills.  It  said  distinctly  the  enig¬ 
matic  words:  “Iqhui  dlosh  od- 
hqlonqh ■”  and  then,  while  the 
sorcerer  was  pondering  the  sig¬ 
nificance  of  this  unusual  elocu¬ 
tion,  it  turned  away  from  him 
and  started  to  re-ascend  the 
higher  steps,  toward  a  rather 
spacious  cavern  with  columned 
opening,  that  he  had  not  hereto- 
for  perceived.  It  had  hardly 
passed  from  sight  into  the  cav¬ 
ern,  when  Eibon  was  greeted 
by  the  high  priest,  Morghi,  who 
had  readily  followed  him  by  his 
tracks  in  tne  ashen  soil. 

“Detestable  sorcerer!  Abom¬ 
inable  heretic!  I  arrest  you!” 
said  Morghi  with  pontifical  se¬ 
verity. 

EIBON  WAS  suiprised,  not 
to  say  startled;  but  it  reassured 
him  to  see  that  Morghi  was 
alone.  He  drew  the  sword  of 
highly  tempered  bronze  which 
he  carried,  and  smiled. 

“I  should  advise  you  to  mod- 
rate  your  language,  Morghi,”  he 
admonished.  “Also,  your  idea  of 
arresting  me  is  slightly  out  of 
place  now,  since  we  are  alone 


The  Door 

together  in  Cykranosh,  and  Mhu 
Thulan  and  the  temple-cells  of 
Yhoundeh  are  many  million 
miles  away.” 

Morghi  did  not  appear  to  rel¬ 
ish  this  information.  He  scowled 
and  muttered,  “I  suppose  this  is 
some  more  of  your  damnable 
wizardry.” 

Eibon  chose  to  ignore  the  in¬ 
sinuation. 

“I  have  been  conversing  with 
one  of  the  gods  of  Cykranosh,” 
he  said  magniloquently.  “The 
god,  whose  name  is  Hziulquoig- 
mnzhah,  has  given  me  a  mission 
to  perform,  a  message  to  deliv-  ■ 
er,  and  has  indicated  the  direc¬ 
tion  in  which  I  should  go.  I  sug¬ 
gest  that  you  lay  aside  our  lit¬ 
tle  mundane  disagreement,  and 
accompany  me.  Of  course  we 
could  slit  each  other’s  throats  or 
eviscerate  each  other,  since  we 
are  both  armed.  But  under  the 
circumstances,  I  think  you  will 
see  the  puerility,  not  to  mention 
the  sheer  inutility,  of  such  pro¬ 
ceeding.  If  we  both  live  we  may 
be  of  mutual  use  and  assistance, 
in  a  strange  world  whose -prob¬ 
lems  and  difficulties,  if  I  mis¬ 
take  not,  are  worthy  of  our  unit¬ 
ed  powers.” 

Morghi  frowned  and  ponder¬ 
ed. 

“Very  well,”  he  said  grudg¬ 
ingly,  “I  consent.  But  I  warn  you 
that  matters  will  have  to  take 
their  course  when  we  return  to 
Mhu  Thulan.” 

“That,”  rejoined  Eibon,  “is  a 
contingency  which  need  not 


To  Saturn  111 

trouble  either  of  us.  Shall  we 
start?” 

THE  TWO  Hyprboreans  had 
been  following  a  defile  that 
wound  away  from  the  lake  of 
fluid  metal  among  hills  whose 
vegetation  thickened  and  grew 
more  various  as  their  height  de¬ 
creased.  It  was  the  valley  that 
had  been  indicated  to  the  sor¬ 
cerer  by  the  topsy-turvy  biped. 
Morghi,  a  natural  inquisitor  in 
all  senses,  was  plying  Eibon 
with  questions. 

‘“Who,  or  what,  was  the  sing- 
►  ular  entity  that  disappeared  in 
a  cavern  just  before  I  accosted 
you?” 

“That  was  the  god  Hziul- 
quoigmnzhah.” 

“And  who,  pray  is  this  god? 
I  confess  that  I  have  never 
heard  of  him.” 

“He  is  the  paternal  uncle  of 
Zhothaqquah.” 

Morghi  was  silent,  except  for 
a  queer  sound  that  might  have 
been  either  an  interrupted 
sneeze  or  an  exclamation  of  dis¬ 
gust.  But  after  a  while  he  asked, 
"And  what  is  this  mission  of 
yours?” 

“That  will  be  revealed  in  due 
time,”  answered  Eibon  with 
sentious  dignity.  “I  am  not  al¬ 
lowed  to  discuss  it  at  present.  I 
have  a  message  from  the  god 
which  I  must  deliver  only  to  the 
proper  persons.” 

Morghi  was  unwillingly  im¬ 
pressed. 


112 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


“Well,  I  suppose  you  know 
what  you  are  doing  and  where 
you  are  going.  Can  you  give  me 
any  hint  as  to  our  destination?” 

“That,  too,  will  be  revealed 
in  due  time.” 

THE  HILLS  were  lapsing 
gently  to  a  well-wooded  plain 
whose  flora  would  have  been 
the  despair  of  Earthly  botanists. 
Beyond  the  last  hill,  Eibon  and 
Morghi  came  to  a  narrow  road 
that  began  abruptly  and  stretch¬ 
ed  away  in  the  distance.  Eibon 
took  the  road  without  hesita¬ 
tion.  Indeed  there  was  little 
else  to  do,  for  the  thickets  of 
mineral  plants  and  trees  were 
rapidly  becoming  impenetrable. 
They  lined  the  way  with  serrate 
branches  that  were  like  sheaves 
of  darts  and  daggers,  of  sword- 
blades  and  needles. 

Eibon  and  Morghi  soon  no¬ 
ticed  that  the  road  was  full  of 
large  footprints,  all  of  them  cir¬ 
cular  in  form  and  rimmed  about 
with  the  marks  of  protruding 
claws.  However,  they  did  not 
communicate  their  misgivings  to 
each  other. 

After  an  hour  or  two  of  pro¬ 
gress  along  the  yielding  ashy 
thoroughfare,  amid  the  vegeta¬ 
tion  that  was  more  horrent  than 
ever  with  knives  and  caltrops, 
the  travelers  began  to  remember 
that  they  were  hungry.  Morghi, 
in  his  haste  to  arrest  Eibon,  had 
not  breakfasted;  and  Eibon,  in 
his  natural  hurry  to  evade  Mor¬ 
ghi,  had  commited  a  like  omis¬ 


sion.  They  halted  by  the  wayside, 
and  the  sorcerer  shared  his  par¬ 
cel  of  food  and  wine  with  the 
priest.  They  ate  and  drank  with 
frugality,  however,  since  the 
supply  was  limited,  and  the 
landscape  about  them  was  not 
likely  to  yield  any  viands  that 
were  suitable  for  human  suste¬ 
nance. 

With  strength  and  courage 
revived  by  this  little  refection, 
they  continued  their  journey. 
They  had  not  gone  far  when 
they  overtook  a  remarkable 
monster  that  was  plainly  the 
originator  of  the  numerous 
footprints.  It  was  squatting 
down  with  its  armored  haunch¬ 
es  toward  the  travelers,  filling 
the  whole  road  for  an  indeter¬ 
minable  distance  ahead.  They 
could  see  that  it  was  possessed 
of  a  myriad  short  legs;  but  they 
could  form  no  idea  of  what  its 
head  and  forequarters  were  like. 

Eibon  and  Morghi  were  much 
dismayed. 

“Is  this  another  of  your  gods?” 
asked  Morghi  ironically. 

THE  SORCERER  did  not  re¬ 
ply.  But  he  realized  that  he  had 
a  reputation  to  sustain.  He  went 
boldly  forward  and  cried  out, 
“Hziulquoigmnzhah”  in  the 
most  resonant  bellow  that  he 
could  summon.  At  the  same  time 
he  drew  his  sword  and  thrust  it 
between  two  plates  of  the  homy 
mail  that  covered  the  monster’s 
hindquarters. 

Greatly  to  his  relief,  the  ani- 


The  Door  To  Saturn 


113 


mal  began  to  move  and  resumed 
its  march  along  the  road.  The, 
Hyperboreans  followed  it;  and 
Whenever  the  creature  slacken¬ 
ed  its  pace  Eibon  would  repeat 
the  formula  which  he  had  found 
so  effective.  Morghi  was  com¬ 
pelled  to  regard  him  with  a  cer¬ 
tain  awe. 

They  traveled  on  in  this  man¬ 
ner  for  several  hours.  The  great 
luminous  triple  ring  still  over¬ 
arched  the  zenith,  but  a  strange¬ 
ly  small  and  chilly  sun  had  now 
intersected  the  ring  and  was  de¬ 
clining  toward  die  west  of  Cy- 
kranosh.  The  forest  along  the 
way  was  still  a  high  wall  of 
sharp  metallic  foliage;  but  oth¬ 
er  roads  and  paths  and  by-ways 
were  now'  branching  off  from 
the  one  that  the  monster  fol¬ 
lowed. 

All  was  very  silent,  except  for 
the  many-footed  shuffling  of 
this  uncouth  animal;  and  neith¬ 
er  Eibon  nor  Morghi  had  spok¬ 
en  for  miles.  The  high  priest 
was  regretting  more  and  more 
his  rashness  in  pursuing  Eibon 
through  the  panel;  and  Eibon 
was  wishing  that  Zhothaqquah 
had  given  him  the  entree  to  a 
different  sort  of  world.  They 
were  startled  out  of  their  medi¬ 
tations  by  a  sudden  clamor  of 
deep  and  booming  voices  that 
rose  from  somewhere  in  advance 
of  the  monster.  It  was  a  verita¬ 
ble  pandemonium  of  unhuman 
guttural  bellowings  and  croak- 
ings,  with  notes  that  were  some¬ 
how  suggestive  of  reproof  and 


objurgation,  like  shrewish 
drums,  as  if  the  monster  were 
being  scolded  by  a  group  of  un¬ 
imaginable  entities. 

“Well?”  queried  Morghi. 

“All  that  we  are  destined  to 
behold  will  reveal  itself  at  the 
proper  time,”  said  Eibon. 

THE  FOREST  was  thinning 
rapidly,  and  the  clamor  of  ter¬ 
magant  bellows  was  drawing 
closer.  Still  following  the  hind¬ 
quarters  of  their  multipedal 
guide,  which  was  crawling  on 
with  reluctant  slowness,  the  tra¬ 
velers  emerged  in  an  open  space 
and  beheld  a  most  singular  ta¬ 
bleau.  The  monster,  which  was 
plainly  of  a  tame  and  harmless 
and  stupid  sort,  was  cowering 
before  a  knot  of  beings  no  larg¬ 
er  than  men,  who  were  armed 
only  with  long-handled  goads. 

These  beings,  though  they 
were  bipeds,  and  were  not  quite 
so  unheard-of  in  their  anatomic 
structure  as  the  entity  which 
Eibon  had  met  by  the  lake, 
were  nevertheless  sufficiently 
unusual;  for  their  heads  and 
bodies  were  apparently  com¬ 
bined  in  one,  and  their  ears, 
eyes,  nostrils,  mouths  and  cer¬ 
tain  other  organs  of  doubtful  use 
were  all  arranged  in  a  somewhat 
unconventional  grouping  on 
•  their  chests  and  abdomens. 
'They  were  wholly  naked,  and 
were  rather  dark  in  color,  with 
no  trace  of  hair  on  any  part  of 
their  bodies.  Behind  them  at  a 
little  distance  were  many  edi- 


114 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


fices  of  a  kind  which  hardly 
conformed  to  human  ideas  of 
architectural  symmetry. 

Eibon  strode  valorously  for¬ 
ward,  with  Morghi  following 
discreetly.  The  torso-headed  be¬ 
ings  ceased  their  scolding  of  the 
fawning  monster  and  peered  at 
the  Earthmen  with  expressions 
that  were  difficult  to  read  on 
account  of  the  odd  and  baffling 
relationship  of  their  features. 

“Hziulquoigmnzhah!  Zhothaq- 
quah!”  said  Eibon  with  oracular 
solemnity  and  sonority.  Then, 
after  a  pause  of  hieratic  length, 
“Iqhui  dlosh  odhqlonqh!” 

The  result  was  indeed  gratify¬ 
ing,  and  was  all  that  could  be 
expected  even  from  a  formula 
so  remarkable;  for  the  Cykra- 
noshian  beings  dropped  their 
goads  and  bowed  before  the 
sorcerer  till  their  featured  bos¬ 
oms  almost  touched  the  ground. 

“I  have  performed  the  mis¬ 
sion,  I  have  delivered  the  mes¬ 
sage  given  me  by  Hziulquoig¬ 
mnzhah,”  said  Eibon  to  Morghi. 

FOR  SEVERAL  Cykranoshi- 
an  months  the  two  Hyperbore¬ 
ans  were  the  honored  guests  of 
this  quaint  and  worthy  and  vir¬ 
tuous  people,  who  called  them¬ 
selves  the  Bhlemphroims.  Eibon 
had  a  real  gift  for  languages 
and  made  progress  in  the  local 
tongue  far  more  readily  than 
Morghi.  His  knowledge  of  the 
customs,  manners,  ideas  and  be¬ 
liefs  of  the  Bhlemphroims  soon 
became  extensive;  but  he  found 


it  a  source  of  disillusionment  as 
well  as  of  illumination. 

The  armored  monster  that  he 
and  Morghi  had  driven  before 
them  so  valiantly  was,  he  learn¬ 
ed,  a  domestic  beast  of  burden 
that  had  strayed  away  from  its 
owners  amid  the  mineral  vege¬ 
tation  of  the  desert  lands  adjoin¬ 
ing  Vhlorrh,  the  chief  town  of 
the  Bhlemphroims.  The  genu¬ 
flections  with  which  Eibon  and 
Morghi  had  been  greeted  were 
only  an  expression  of  gratitude 
for  the  safe  return  of  this  beast; 
and  were  not,  as  Eibon  had 
thought,  an  acknowledgment  of 
the  divine  names  he  had  quoted 
and  the  fearsome  phrase,  blqhui 
dlosh  odhqlonqh. 

The  being  that  Eibon  had 
met  by  the  lake  was  indeed  the 
god  Hziulquoigmnzhah;  and 
mere  were  dim  traditions  of 
Zhothaqquah  in  certain  early 
myths  of  the  Bhlemphroims.  But 
this  people,  it  seemed,  were 
most  regrettably  materialistic 
and  had  long  ceased  to  offer  sa¬ 
crifice  and  prayer  to  the  gods; 
though  they  spoke  of  them  with 
a  sort  of  distant  respect  and 
with  no  actual  blasphemy. 

Eibon  learned  that  the  words 
“ Iqhui  dlosh  odhqlonqh”  doubt¬ 
less  belonged  to  a  private  lan¬ 
guage  of  the  gods,  which  the 
Bhlemphroims  no  longer  under¬ 
stood;  but  which,  however,  was 
still  studied  by  a  neighboring 
people,  the  Ydheems,  who  main¬ 
tained  the  ancient  formal  wor- 


The  Door 

ship  of  Hziulquoigmnzhah  and ' 
various  related  deities. 

THE  BHLEMPHROIMS  were 
indeed  a  practical  race,  and  had 
few  if  any  interests  beyond  the 
cultivation  of  a  great  variety  of 
edible  fungi,  the  breeding  of 
large  centipedaT  animals,  and 
the  propagation  of  their  own 
species.  The  latter  process,  as 
revealed  to  Eibon  and  Morghi, 
was  somewhat  unusual:  though 
the  Bhlemphroims  were  bisexu¬ 
al,  only  one  female  in  a  genera¬ 
tion  was  chosen  for  reproduc¬ 
tive  duties;  and  this  female,  af¬ 
ter  growing  to  mammoth  size 
on  food  prepared  from  a  special 
fungus,  became  the  mother  of 
an  entire  new  generation. 

When  they  had  been  well  in¬ 
itiated  into  the  life  and  customs 
of  Vhlorrh,  the  Hyperboreans 
were  privileged  to  see  the  fu¬ 
ture  national  mother,  called  the 
Djhenquomh,  who  had  now  at¬ 
tained  the  requisite  proportions 
after  years  of  scientific  nourish¬ 
ment.  She  lived  in  an  edifice 
that  was  necessarily  larger  than 
any  of  the  other  buildings  in 
Vhlorrh;  and  her  sole  activity 
was  the  consumpion  of  immense 
quantities  of  food.  The  sorcerer 
and  the  inquisitor  were  impress¬ 
ed,  even  if  not  captivated,  by 
the  mountainous  amplitude  of 
her  charms  and  by  their  highly 
novel  arrangement.  They  were 
told  that  the  male  parent  (or 
parents)  of  the  forthcoming 


'o  Saturn  115 

S Generation  had  not  yet  been  se- 
ected. 

The  possession  of  separate 
heads  by  the  Hyperboreans 
seemed  to  lend  them  a  remark¬ 
able  biologic  interest  in  the 
eyes  of  their  hosts.  The  Bhlem¬ 
phroims,  it  was  learned,  had  not 
always  been  headless  but  had 
reached  their  present  physical 
conformation  through  a  slow 
course  of  evolution,  in  which 
the  head  of  the  archetypal 
Bhlemphroim  had  been  merged 
by  imperceptible  degrees  with 
the  torso. 

But,  unlike  most  peoples,  they 
did  not  regard  their  current 
stage  of  development  with  un¬ 
qualified  complacency.  Indeed, 
tneir  headlessness  was  a  source 
of  national  regret;  they  deplor¬ 
ed  the  retrenchment  of  nature 
in  this  regard;  and  the  arrival  of 
Eibon  and  Morghi,  who  were 
looked  upon  as  ideal  exemplars 
of  cephalic  evolution,  had  serv¬ 
ed  to  quicken  their  eugenic  sor- 


THE  SORCERER  and  the  in¬ 
quisitor,  on  their  part,  found 
life  rather  dull  among  the 
Bhlemphroims  after  the  first 
feeling  of  exoticism  had  worn 
off.  The  diet  was  tiresome  for 
one  thing  —  an  endless  succes¬ 
sion  of  raw  and  boiled  and 
roasted  mushrooms,  varied  at 
rare  intervals  by  the  coarse  and 
flabby  meat  of  tame  monsters. 
And  this  people,  though  they 
were  always  polite  and  respect- 


116 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


ful,  did  not  seem  to  be  greatly 
awed  by  the  exhibitions  of  Hy¬ 
perborean  magic  with  which 
Eibon  and  Morghi  favored 
them;  and  their  lamentable 
want  of  religious  ardor  made  all 
evangelistic  endeavor  a  thank¬ 
less  task.  And,  being  fundamen¬ 
tally  unimaginative,  they  were 
not  even  duly  impressed  by  the 
fact  that  their  visitors  had  come 
from  a  remote  ultra-Cykranosh- 
ian  world. 

“I  feel,”  said  Eibon  to  Morghi 
one  day,  “that  the  god  was  sad¬ 
ly  mistaken  in  deigning  to  send 
tnis  people  a  message  of  any 
sort.” 

It  was  very  soon  after  this 
that  a  large  committee  of  the 
Bhlemphroims  waited  upon  Ei¬ 
bon  and  Morghi  and  informed 
them  that  after  long  considera¬ 
tion  they  had  been  selected  as 
the  fathers  of  die  next  genera¬ 
tion  and  were  to  be  married 
forthwith  to  the  tribal  mother 
in  the  hope  that  a  well-headed 
race  of  Bhlemphroims  would 
result  from  the  union. 

Eibon  and  Morghi  were  quite 
overcome  by  the  proposed  eu¬ 
genic  honor.  Thinking  of  the 
mountainous  female  they  had 
seen,  Morghi  was  prone  to  re¬ 
member  his  sacerdotal  vows  of 
celibacy  and  Eibon  was  eager 
to  take  similar  vows  upon  him¬ 
self  without  delay.  The  inquisi¬ 
tor,  indeed,  was  so  overwhelm¬ 
ed  as  to  be  rendered  almost 
speechless;  but,  with  rare  pres¬ 
ence  of  mind,  the  sorcerer  tem¬ 


porized  by  making  a  few  queries 
anent  the  legal  and  social  status 
which  would  be  enjoyed  by 
Morghi  and  himself  as  die  hus¬ 
bands  of  the  Djhenquomh.  And 
the  naive  Bhlemphroims  told 
him  that  this  would  be  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  brief  concern;  that  after 
completing  their  marital  duties 
the  husbands  were  always  serv¬ 
ed  to  the  national  mother  in  the 
form  of  ragouts  and  other  culin¬ 
ary  preparations. 

THE  HYPERBOREANS  tried 
to  conceal  from  their  hosts  the 
reluctance  with  which  they  both 
regarded  the  coming  honor  in 
all  its  sages.  Being  as  usual  a 
master  of  diplomatics,  Eibon 
went  so  far  as  to  make  a  formal 
acceptance  on  behalf  of  himself 
and  his  companion.  But  when 
the  delegation  of  Bhlemphroims 
had  departed  he  said  to  Morghi, 
“I  am  more  than  ever  convinced 
that  the  god  was  mistaken  We 
must  leave  the  city  of  Vhlorrh 
with  all  feasible  dispatch,  and 
continue  our  journey  till  we  find 
a  people  who  are  worthier  to 
receive  His  communication.” 

Apparently  it  had  never  oc¬ 
curred  to  the  simple  and  patrio¬ 
tic  Bhlemphroims  that  the  fath¬ 
ering  of  their  next  national  litter 
was  a  privilege  that  anyone 
would  dream  of  rejecting.  Ei¬ 
bon  and  Morghi  were  subjected 
to  no  manner  of  duress,  or  con¬ 
straint,  and  their  movements- 
were  not  even  watched.  It  was 


The  Door  To  Saturn 


117 


an  easy  matter  to  leave  the 
bouse  in  which  they  had  been 
domiciled,  when  the  rumbling 
snores  of  their  hosts  were  a- 
scending  to  the  great  ring  of 
Cykranoshian  moons,  and  to  fol¬ 
low  the  highway  that  led  from 
Vhloorh  toward  the  country  of 
the  Ydheems. 

The  road  before  them  was 
well  marked;  and  the  ring-light 
was  almost  as  clear  and  brilliant 
as  full  day.  They  traveled  a  long 
distance  through  the  diversified 
and  always  unique  scenery 
which  it  served  to  illumine,  be¬ 
fore  the  rising  of  the  sun  and 
the  consequent  discovery  of 
their  departure  by  the  Bhlem¬ 
phroims.  These  single-minded 
bipeds,  it  is  likely,  were  too 
sorely  perplexed  and  dumb¬ 
founded  by  the  loss  of  the  guests 
whom  they  had  chosen  as  fu¬ 
ture  progenitors  to  even  think 
of  following  them. 

THE  LAND  of  the  Ydheems 
(as  indicated  on  an  earlier  oc¬ 
casion  by  the  Bhlemphroims ) 
was  many  leagues  away;  and 
tracts  of  ashen  deserts,  of  min¬ 
eral  cacti,  of  fungoid  forests  and 
high  mountains  intervened.  The 
boundary  of  the  Bhlemphroims 
—  marked  by  a  crude  sculptur¬ 
esque  representation  of  the  trib¬ 
al  mother  beside  the  way  —  was 
passed  by  the  travelers  before 
dawn. 

And  during  the  following 
day  they  journeyed  among  more 
than  one  of  those  unusual  races 


who  diversify  so  widely  the 
population  of  Saturn.  They  saw 
■the  Djhibbis,  that  apterous  and 
Stylitean  bird-people  who  roost 
on  their  individual  dolomites 
for  years  at  a  time  and  meditate 
upon  the  cosmos,  uttering  to 
each  other  at  long  intervals  the 
mystic  syllables  yop,  yeep  and 
yoop,  which  are  said  to  express 
an  unfathomed  range  of  esoteric 
thought. 

And  they  met  those  flibber¬ 
tigibbet  pygmies,  the  Ephiqhs, 
who  hollow  out  their  homes  in 
the  trunks  of  certain  large  fungi, 
and  are  always  having  to  hunt 
new  habitations  because  the  old 
ones  crumble  into  powder  in  a 
few  days.  And  they  heard 
the  underground  croakings  of 
that  mysterious  people,  the 
Ghlonghs,  who  dread  not  only 
the  sunlight  but  also  the  ring- 
light,  ana  who  have  never  yet 
been  seen  by  any  of  the  surface- 
dwellers. 

By  sunset,  however,  Eibon 
and  Morghi  had  crossed  the  do¬ 
mains  of  all  the  aforementioned 
races,  and  had  even  climbed  the 
lower  scarps  of  those  mountains 
which  still  divided  them  from 
the  land  of  the  Ydheems.  Here, 
on  a  sheltered  ledge,  their  wear¬ 
iness  impelled  them  to  halt;  and 
since  they  had  now  ceased  to 
dread  pursuit  from  the  Bhlem¬ 
phroims,  they  wrapped  them¬ 
selves  more  tightly  in  their  man¬ 
tles  against  the  cold,  after  a 


118 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


meager  supper  of  raw  mush¬ 
rooms,  and  fell  asleep. 

THEIR  SLUMBER  was  dis¬ 
turbed  by  a  series  of  cacode- 
monical  dreams  in  which  they 
both  thought  they  had  been  re¬ 
captured  by  the  Bhlemphroins 
and  were  forced  to  espouse  the 
Djhenquomh.  They  awoke 
shortly  before  dawn,  from  vi¬ 
sions  whose  details  were  excru¬ 
ciatingly  vivid,  and  were  more 
than  ready  to  resume  their  a- 
scent  of  the  mountains. 

The  slopes  and  cliffs  above 
them  were  desolate  enough  to 
have  deterred  any  travelers  of 
inferior  hardihood  or  less  co¬ 
gent  fears.  The  tall  woods  of 
fungi  dwindled  ere  long  to  tiny 
growths,  and  soon  they  lessened 
to  forms  that  were  no  bigger 
than  lichens;  and  after  these, 
there  was  nothing  but  black  and 
naked  stone.  The  wiry  and 
slender  Eibon  suffered  no  great 
inconvenience  from  the  climb; 
but  Morghi,  with  his  sacerdotal 
girth  and  bulk,  was  soon  wind¬ 
ed.  Whenever  he  paused  to  re¬ 
cover  his  breath,  Eibon  would 
say  to  him,  ‘Think  of  the  nation¬ 
al  mother,”  and  Morghi  would 
climb  the  next  acclivity  like  an 
agile  but  somewhat  asthmatic 
mountain-sheep. 

They  came  at  noon  to  a  pin¬ 
nacle-guarded  pass  from  which 
they  could  look  down  on  the 
country  of  the  Ydheems.  They 
saw  that  it  was  a  broad  and  fer¬ 
tile  realm,  with  woods  of  mam¬ 


moth  mushrooms  and  other 
thallophytes  that  excelled  in  size 
and  number  those  of  any  other 
region  they  had  yet  traversed. 
Even  the  mountain-slopes  were 
more  fruitful  on  this  side,  for 
Eibon  and  Morghi  had  not  de¬ 
scended  far  when  they  entered 
a  grove  of  enormous  puffballs 
and  toadstools. 

They  were  admiring  the  mag¬ 
nitude  and  variety  of  these 
growths,  when  they  heard  a 
thunderous  noise  on  the  moun¬ 
tains  above  them.  The  noise 
drew  nearer,  gathering  to  itself 
the  roar  of  new  thunders.  Ei¬ 
bon  would  have  prayed  to  Zho- 
thaqquah,  and  Morghi  would 
have  supplicated  the  goddess 
Yhoundeh,  but  unfortunately 
there  was  no  time.  They  were 
caught  in  a  mighty  mass  of  roll¬ 
ing  puff-balls  and  toppling  toad¬ 
stools  overthrown  by  the  huge 
avalanche  that  had  started  on 
the  heights  above;  and,  borne 
with  increasing  momentum, 
with  vertiginous  speed  and  tu¬ 
mult  amid  an  ever-growing 
heap  of  shattered  fungi,  they 
finished  their  descent  of  the 
mountain  in  less  than  a  minute. 

ENDEAVORING  to  extricate 
themselves  from  the  pile  of  thal- 
lophytic  debris  in  which  they 
were  buried,  Eibon  and  Morghi t 
noticed  that  there  still  seemed* 
to  be  a  good  deal  of  noise;  even 
though  the  avalanche  had  stop¬ 
ped.  Also,  there  were  other 
movements  and  heavings  than 


The  Door  To  Saturn 


119 


their  own  in  the  pile.  When 
they  had  managed  to  get  their 
necks  and  shoulders  clear,  they 
discovered  that  the  commotion 
was  being  made  by  certain  peo- 

E"9'  le  who  differed  from  their  late 
osts,  the  Bhlemphroims,  in  that 
they  possessed  rudimentary 
heads. 

These  people  were  some  of 
the  Ydheems,  on  one  of  whose 
towns  the  avalanche  had  de- 

fscended.  Roofs  and  towers  were 
beginning  to  emerge  from  the 
mass  of  boulders  and  puff-balls; 
and  just  in  front  of  the  Hyper- 
E  boreans  there  was  a  large  tem¬ 
ple-like  edifice  from  whose 
£  blocked-up  door  a  multitude  of 
•the  Ydheems  had  now  tunneled 
their  way.  At  sight  of  Eibon  and 
B  Morghi  they  suspended  their 
E  labors;  and  the  sorcerer,  who 
B  had  freed  himself  and  had  made 
B  sure  that  all  his  bones  and  mem- 
■  bers  were  intact,  now  took  the 
■  opportunity  to  address  them. 

I  “Harken!”  he  said  with  great 
E  importance.  “I  have  come  to 
K  bring  you  a  message  from  the 
f  god  Hziulquoigmnzhah.  I  have 
L  borne  it  faithfully  on  ways,  beset 
with  many  hazards  and  perils. 
In  the  god’s  own  divine  lan¬ 
guage,  it  runs  thus:  ‘Iqhui  dlosh 
:  odhqlonqh.’  ” 

Since  he  spoke  in  the  dialect 
;  of  the  Bhlemphroims,  which 
;  differed  somewhat  from  their 
own,  it  is  doubtful  if  the 
Ydheems  altogether  understood 
the  first  part  of  his  utterance. 
But  Hziulquoigmnzhah  was 


their  tutelary  deity;  and  they 
knew  the  language  of  the  gods. 
At  the  words:  “ Iqhui  dlosh  odh¬ 
qlonqh”  there  was  a  most  re¬ 
markable  resumption  and  in¬ 
crease  of  activity,  a  ceaseless 
running  to  and  fro  on  the  part  of 
the  Ydheems,  a  shouting  of  gut¬ 
tural  orders,  and  a  recrude¬ 
scence  of  new  heads  and  limbs 
from  the  avalanche. 

Those  who  had  issued  from 
the  temple  re-entered  it,  and 
came  out  once  more  carrying  a 
huge  image  of"  Hziulquoigmnz¬ 
hah,  some  smaller  icons  of  lesser 
though  allied  deities,  and  a  very 
ancient-looking  idol  which  both 
Eibon  and  Morghi  recognized 
as  having  a  resemblance  to  Zho- 
thaqquah.  Others  of  the  Ydeems 
brought  their  household  goods 
and  furniture  forth  from  the 
dwellings,  and  signing  the  Hy¬ 
perboreans  to  accompany  them, 
the  whole  populace  began  to  e- 
vacuate  the  town. 

EIBON  AND  MORGHI  were 
much  mystified.  And  it  was  not 
until  a  new  town  had  been 
built  on  the  fungus-wooded 
lain  at  the  distance  of  a  full 
ay’s  march,  and  they  them¬ 
selves  had  been  installed  among 
the  priests  of  the  new  temple, 
that  they  learned  the  reason  of 
it  .all  and  the  meaning  of:  “Iqhui 
dlosh  odhqlonqh.”  These  words 
meant  merely:  “Be  on  your 
way;”  and  the  god  had  address¬ 
ed  them  to  Eibon  as  a  dismissal. 
But  the  coincidental  coming  of 


120 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


the  avalanche  and  of  Eibon  and 
Morghi  with  his  purported  mes¬ 
sage  from  the  god,  had  been 
taken  by  the  Ydheems  as  a  di¬ 
vine  injunction  to  remove  them¬ 
selves  and  their  goods  from 
their  present  location.  Thus  the 
wholesale  exodus  of  people  with 
their  idols  and  domestic  belong¬ 
ings. 

The  new  town  was  called 
Ghlomph,  after  the  one  that  the 
avalanche  had  buried.  Here,  for 
th  remainder  of  their  days,  Ei¬ 
bon  and  Morghi  were  held  in 
much  honor;  and  their  coming 
with  the  message,  “Iqhui  dlosh 
odhqlonqh,”  was  deemed  a  for¬ 
tunate  thing,  since  there  were  no 
more  avalanches  to  threaten  die 
security  of  Ghlomph  in  its  new 
situation  remote  from  the  moun¬ 
tains. 

The  Hypberboreans  shared 
the  increment  of  civic  affluence 
and  well-being  resultant  from 
this  security.  There  was  no  na¬ 
tional  mother  among  the 
Ydheems,  who  propagated 
themselves  in  a  far  more  general 
manner  than  the  Bhlemphroims; 
so  existence  was  quite  safe  and 
tranquil.  Eibon,  at  least,  was 
really  in  his  element;  for  the 
news  which  he  brought  of  Zho- 
thaqquah,  who  was  still  wor¬ 
shipped  in  this  region  of  Cvkra- 
nosh,  had  enabled  him  to  set  up 
as  a  sort  of  minor  prophet,  even 
apart  from  the  renown  which 
he  enjoyed  as  the  bearer  of  the 
divine  message  and  as  the 


founder  of  the  new  town  of 
Ghlomph. 

Morghi,  however,  was  not  en¬ 
tirely  happy.  Though  the  Yd¬ 
heems  were  religious,  they  did 
not  carry  their  devotional  fer¬ 
vor  to  the  point  of  bigotry  or 
intolerance;  so  it  was  quite  im¬ 
possible  to  start  an  inquisition 
among  them.  But  still  there 
were  compensations:  the  fun¬ 
gus-wine  of  the  Ydheems  was 
potent  though  evil-tasting;  and 
there  were  females  of  a  sort,  if 
one  were  not  too  squeamish. 
Consequently,  Morghi  and  Ei¬ 
bon  both  settled  down  to  an  ec¬ 
clesiastic  regimen  which,  after 
all,  was  not  so  radically  differ¬ 
ent  from  that  of  Mhu  Thulan 
or  any  other  place  on  the  planet 
of  their  birth. 

SUCH  WERE  the  various  ad¬ 
ventures,  and  such  was  the  fi¬ 
nal  lot  of  this  redoubtable  pair 
in  Cykranosh.  But  in  Eibon’s 
tower  of  black  gneiss  on  that 
headland  of  the  northern  sea  in 
Mhu  Thulan,  the  underlings  of 
Morghi  waited  for  days,  neither 
wishing  to  follow  the  high  priest 
through  the  magic  panel  nor 
daring  to  leave  in  disobedience 
of  his  orders. 

At  length  they  were  recalled 
by  a  special  dispensation  from 
the  hierophant  who  had  been 
chosen  as  Morghi’s  temporary 
successor.  But  the  result  of  the 
whole  affair  was  highly  regret¬ 
table  from  the  standpoint  of  the 


The  Door  To  Saturn 


121 


hierachy  of  Yhoundeh.  It  was 
universally  believed  that  Eibon 
had  not  only  escaped  by  virtue 
of  the  powerful  magic  he  had 
learned  from  Zhothaqquah,  but 
had  made  away  with  Morghi  in¬ 
to  the  bargain.  As  a  conse¬ 


quence  of  this  belief,  the  faith 
of  Yhoundeh  declined,  and  there 
was  a  widespread  revival  of  the 
dark  worship  of  Zothaqquah 
throughout  Mhu  Thulan  in  the 
last  centuries  before  the  onset  of 
the  great  Ice  Age. 


Z)t  Z)&  ^Written  .  .  . 


As  we  end  volume  one,  we  should  like  to  report  to  you  on  the  general  trend 
of  your  reactions  as  indicated  by  your  letters, .  ballots,  etc.  Full  returns  from 
you  are  in  on  the  first  three  issues;  a  few  letters  have  been  received  on  the 

f  fourth,  as  our  schedule  requires  that  all  copy  for  this  issue  go  to  the  printer 

|  not  long  after  the  fourth  issue  went  on  sale.  We  can  add  an  extra  paragraph 
i  a  month  from  now,  by  which  time  we  will  have  an  adequate  idea  of  how  you 
I  rated  the  May  issue,  but  we  could  not  send  on  very  much  last-minute  copy. 

.  That  is  why  you  will  see  very  little  comment  on  the  stories  we  ran  in  the  May 
f  issue;  these  will  have  to  wait  until  next  time. 

I  Over  150  stories  have  been  nominated  for  reprint,  and  more  suggestions 
i  keen  coming  in.  This,  plus  your  expressed  approval  of  our  offering  you  some 
works  of  the  Old  Masters,  but  more  from  magazines  and  hard-cover  collections 
s  of  twenty  years  back  and  earlier,  shows  that  you  approve  of  our  reprint  policy. 

I;  You  have  also  consistently  asked  for  new  stories,  and  these  we  will  offer  you 

K  as  we  can  obtain  items  which  we  feel  are  up  to  the  standard  you  desire.  With 
K  your  nominations  for  reprint:  some  of  these,  for  one  reason  or  another,  are 
fc-  not  available  to  us;  but  very  many  are,  and  we  shall  follow  your  wishes  as 
K  early  as  possible.  Please  do  not  hesitate  to  send  us  lists;  even  if  your  list  contains 
V  nothing  which  we  do  not  already  have,  it  can  guide  us;  for  when  we  are  trying 
K  to  decide  which  of  possible  stories  needed  to  balance  out  an  issue  we  should 
i  use  first,  one  which  has  a  large  .number  of  votes  will  take  precedence. 

Mark  Ownings  writes  from  Baltimore,  “My  trying  to  suggest  stories  seems 
E  somewhat  disrespectful,  and  reminding  someone  with  a  memory  like  yours  of  a 
B  story  is  downright  ridiculous.” 

But  it  isn’t,  Mr.  Ownings.  In  addition  to  the  reason  listed  above,  our 
memory  for  stories  we  have  read,  while  good,  isn’t  perfect.  A  number  of  good 

I  stories  suggested  turn  out  to  have  been  ones  we  a  forgotten  alxiut.  Ana,  in 
■■  addition,  we  haven’t  read  everything. 

The  question  of  reprinting  stories  by  H.  *G.  Wells,  Ambrose  Bierce,  and 
>  Rudyard  Kipling  continues  to  be  lively.  Your  reactions  to  the  Wells  tales  we 
I  have  offered  has  shown  something  like  four  to  one  in  favor,  and  he  has  received 
|  far  more  comment  than  the  other  two.  Reactions  to  Bierce  and  Kipling  have 
been  nearly  split.  Pending  further  returns  which  might  indicate  a  change  of 
!  majority  opinion,  the  suggested  course  is  to  offer  you  more  Wells,  but  restrict 


122 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


Bierce  and  Kipling  to  stories  specifically  nominated;  however,  we  may  not  pre¬ 
sent  Wells  as  continuously  as  we  have  been  doing. 

“In  regard  to  your  note  on  Supernatural  Horror  in  Literature,  writes  James 
Turner,  “I  feel  that  this  should  be  reprinted,  even  though  I  already  have  a  copy 
and  it  will  be  a  waste  of  space  so  far  as  this  reader  is  concerned.  Still,  for  the 
benefit  of  those  who  haven  t  copies  of  The  Outsider  and  Others,  the  later  1945 

S'  it,  or  even  the  original  fanzine  appearance  of  this  article,  I  think  that  the 
cation  of  this  might  cultivate  a  sense  of  appreciation  in  real  fantasy  liter¬ 
ature:  most  modern  readers  don’t  seem  to  realize  that  there  are  good  authors 
outside  of  Arkham  House  and  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs.  And  yet,  I’m  almost  cer¬ 
tain  that  most  of  your  readers  will  express  their  disappointment  with  it;  Love- 
craft  was  so  very  disorganized  in  his  format,  and  also  one  must  consider  how 
dated  it  is,  being  written  back  in  the  1930’s  and  completely  oblivious  of  the 
important  mass  of  heroic  Unknown  Worlds  type  of  fantasy  which  was  to  come 
after  HPL  died.” 

Hank  Luttrell  writes  from  Kirkwood,  Mo.,  ‘As  to  the  question  about  non¬ 
fiction  in  your  pages:  I  don’t  want  to  see  articles  about  strange  happenings,  or 
fantasy-that-really-happened,  or  this  type  of  thing.  I  can  find  this  elsewhere. 
I  read  your  magazine  for  fiction.  I  would  like  to  see  Lovecraft’s  essay.  Or  other 
non-fiction  on  fiction,  for  that  matter.  Let’s  try  to  keep  our  magazine  ( I  believe 
that  is  a  favorite  expression  of  editors)  fiction,  or  about  fiction,  shall  we?” 

Franklin  Hiller  writes  from  Rochester,  NY,  “I’ll  have  to  abstain  from  vot¬ 
ing  on  the  publication  of  the  specific  article  mentioned,  Lovecraft’s  Supernatural 
Horror  in  Literature  since  1  have  a  copy  of  it  published  by  Ben  Abramson,  but 
my  vote  on  the  general  question  of  articles  in  Magazine  Of  Horror  is  no.  In 
any  event  I’d  rather  not  see  articles  included  on  a  regular  basis.  There  is  little 
enough  space  available  for  the  stories  themselves  and  I  know  of  only  one  other 
magazine  that  publishes  stories  of  this  sort  .  .  . 

'  "I’m  sure  I  don’t  have  to  remind  you  that  it  would  be  as  foolish  to  ignore 
H.  P.  Lovecraft’s  stories,  and  other  stories  of  this  type,  as  it  would  be  to  print 
nothing  else  but  this  typie.  So  I  hope  that  you  will  continue  to  run  an  occasion¬ 
al  Lovecraft  tale.  .  . 

‘How  about  printing  as  many  as  possible  of  the  horror  stories  mentioned  in 
Lovecraft’s  essayr 

These  are  the  first  comments  on  the  question  we  raised  in  our  last  issue 
about  reprinting  the  Lovecraft  essay.  We  are  aware  that  the  essay  is  far  from 
up  to  date  but  feel  that  the  comment  on  earlier  material  might  be  of  value. 
However,  this  is  a  subject  on  which  you,  the  readers,  shall  have  final  say  and 
we  will  not  be  hasty  in  deciding;  many  more  votes  must  be  received  before  we 
can  come  to  a  conclusion. 

The  expression  “our  magazine”  was  first  seen  in  science  fiction  in  the 
letter  columns  of  the  old  Gemsback  Amazing  Stories  and  it  was  a  reader  who 
originated  it. 

As  to  what  she  considered  the  best  story  in  the  May  issue,  Rachel  C.  Payes 
writes,  “No  contest.  H.  G.  Wells  was  so  far  out  in  front  that  he  was  completely 
out  of  sight  of  the  rest.  If  you’d  fill  your  magazine  with  this  kind  of  story,  you 
could  change  the  name  from  Magazine  of  Horror  to  Magazine  of  Humor. 
I  liked  it.” 

Mrs.  Payes  is  one  of  our  readers  who  do  not  care  for  horror  stories,  but 
like  the  strange,  unusual,  and  humorous.  This  does,  however,  bring  up  a  point. 
We  have  tried  to  change  pace  now  and  then  with  a  touch  of  humor  —  not  the 
flippant  sort  which  undermines  the  medium,  but  the  genuinely  amusing  which 

Continued  on  Page  124 


Coming  Next  Issue 

The  next  entry  was  again  a  portion  of  a  letter,  patently  a  reply  to  one 
from  Grandfather  Whateley. 

“You  ask  who  is  responsible  for  those  ridiculous  tales  about  the  Marshes. 
Well,  Luther,  it  would  be  impossible  to  single  out  any  one  or  a  dozen  people 
over  several  generations.  I  agree  that  old  Zadock  Allen  talks  too  much,  drinks, 
and  may  be  romancing.  But  he  is  only  one.  The  fact  is  this  legendry  —  or 
rigmarole,  as  you  call  it  —  has  grown  up  from  one  generation  to  the  next. 
Through  three  generations.  You  have  only  to  look  at  some  of  the  descendants 
of  Captain  Obed  to  understand  why  this  could  have  come  about.  There  are 
some  Marsh  offspring  said  to  have  been  too  horrible  to  look  upon.  Old  wives’ 
tales?  Well,  Dr.  Rowley  Marsh  was  too  ill  to  attend  one  of  the  Marsh  women 
one  time;  so  they  had  to  call  Dr.  Gilman,  and  Gilman  always  said  that  what 
he  delivered  was  less  than  human.  And  nobody  ever  saw  that  particular  Marsh, 
though  there  were  people  later  who  claimed  to  have  seen  things  moving  on  two 
legs  that  weren’t  human. 

Following  this  there  was  a  brief  but  revealing  entry  in  two  words:  "Pun¬ 
ished  Sarah." 

This  must  mark  the  date  of  Sarah  Whateley’s  confinement  to  the  room 
above  the  mill.  For  some  time  after  this  entry,  there  was  no  mention  of  his 
daughter  in  Luther’s  script.  Instead,  his  jottings  were  not  dated  in  any  way, 
and,  judging  by  the  difference  in  the  color  of  the  ink,  were  made  at  different 
times,  though  run  together. 

“Many  frogs.  Seem  to  bear  in  on  the  mill.  Seem  to  be  more  than  in  the 
marshes  across  the  Miskatonic.  Sleeping  difficult.  Are  whipporwills  on  the  in¬ 
crease,  too,  or  is  this  imagination?  .  .  .  Counted  thirty-seven  frogs  at  the  porch 
steps  tonight.” 

There  were  more  entries  of  this  nature.  Abner  read  them  all,  but  there 
was  no  due  in  them  to  what  the  old  man  had  been  getting  at.  Luther  Whateley 
had  thereafter  kept  book  on  frogs,  fog,  fish,  and  their  movements  in  the  Mis¬ 
katonic  —  when  they  rose  and  leaped  from  the  water,  and  so  on.  This  seemed 
to  be  unrelated  data,  and  was  not  in  any  way  connected  to  the  problem  of  Sarah. 

There  was  another  hiatus  after  this  series  of  notes,  and  then  came  a  single, 
underscored  entry. 

“Ariah  was  right!" 

But  about  what  had  Ariah  been  right?  Abner  wondered.  And  how  had 
Luther  Whateley  learned  that  Ariah  had  been  right?  There  was  no  evidence 
that  Ariah  and  Luther  had  continued  their  correspondence  .  .  . 

You  will  not  want  to  miss  this  novella,  in  which  August  Derleth 
develops  an  incompleted  Lovecraft  story  linking  the  lnnsmouth 
and  Dunwich  themes. 

THE  SHUTTERED  ROOID 

by  H.  P.  Lovecraft  &  August  Derleth 


124 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


Continued  from  Page  122 

nonetheless  respects  it.  But  we  haven’t  asked  you  how  you  feel,  and  would  like 
to  hear  from  you  on  this  score. 

From  Ontario,  Canada,  George  Rogers  writes,  “Although  I  agree  with 
some  of  your  readers  who  do  not  wish  your  magazine  to  become  a  copy-machine, 
reproducing  only  classical  stories  from  the  early  part  of  this  century,  I  must  also 
add  the  thoughts  of  my  generation.  I  am  a  second-year  university  student  at 
Carleton  U.,  here  in  Ottawa,  and  because  of  mv  age  —  18  —  and  my  position  — 
Canada  —  have  missed  much  of  the  early  works  of  such  masters  as  Fitz-James 
O’Brien,  H.  P.  Lovecraft,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  H.  G.  Wells,  Arthur  Machen,  etc., 
etc.  It  is  only  through  magazines  of  your  kind  that  I,  and  others  of  my  proclivi¬ 
ties,  can  ever  hope  to  enjoy  these  works. 

“So  I  ask  you  to  continue  in  your  present  enjoyable  format  of  “something 
old,  something  new”,  and  not  let  the  field  of  horror-writing  disappear  from  our 
present-day  society.” 

Your  votes  and  comments  show  the  following  to  have  been  the  best-appre¬ 
ciated  stories  in  our  May  issue:  (1)  The  Dreams  in  the  Witch-House,  by  H.  P. 
Lovecraft;  (2)  The  Mark  of  the  Beast,  by  Rudyard  Kipling;  (3)  What  Was  It?, 
by  Fitz-James  O’Brien;  (4)  Beyond  the  Breakers,  by  Anna  Hunger;  (3)  A 
Dream  of  Falling,  by  Attila  Hatvany.  As  we  anticipated,  the  most  controversial 
story  in  the  issue  was  Lovecraft’s,  though  dislike  votes  were  less  than  half  the 
number  of  first-place  votes.  RAWL 


In  the  May  issue,  we  announced  a  special  contest  open 
to  all  readers.  If  your  ballot  or  letter  or  postcard  lists 
the  top  five  stories  in  the  order  in  which  they  finally 
appear,  you  will  receive  a  free  copy  of  the  issue  contain¬ 
ing  the  announcement  of  it.  (Subscribers  will  have  an 
extra  copy  added  to  their  subscription. )  This  is  the  same 
offer  we  make  to  readers  first  to  suggest  a  story  for  re¬ 
print  that  we  are  able  to  use. 

There  is  no  winner  this  time,  but  —  who  knows  —  next 
time  there  might  be  several!  Please  send  in  your  opinions 
and  votes;  they  are  very  helpful  to  us,  if  they  list  five  or 
more  stories  in  the  order  of  your  preference. 


INDEX  TO  VOLUME  ONE 


The  dates  of  the  issues  are:  August  1963,  November  1963,  Feb- 
bruary  1964,  May  1964,  September  1964,  and  November  1964. 


BARING-GOULD,  S. 

Jean  Bouchon,  Feb.  ’64  49 
BIERCE,  Ambrose 

The  Death  of  Halpin  Frayser, 
Aug.  ’63  58 

A  Tough  Tussle,  Nov.  ’63  57 
One  Summer  Night,  Feb.  ’64  66 
BINNS,  Archie 

The  Charmer,  Nov.  ’63  86 
BURKS,  Arthur  J. 

The  Place  of  the  Pythons, 

Feb.  ’64  37 


CHAMBERS,  Robert  W. 

The  Yellow  Sign,  Aug.  ’63  36 
The  Repairer  of  Reputations, 
Feb.  '64  97 
The  Mask,  Nov.  ’64  34 
CHIBBETT,  H.  S.  W. 

They  That  Wait,  Feb.  ’64  92 


DENTINGER,  Stephen 
A  Stranger  Came  to  Reap, 
Sept.  ’64  79 
DERLETH,  August 
The  Pacer,  Nov.  ’64  81 
Lovecraft  and  “The  Pacer”, 
Nov.  ’64  91 
GRINNELL,  David 
The  Feminine  Fraction, 
Nov.  ’64  66 


JAMES,  Henry 

The  Ghostly  Rental,  Sept.  ’64  96 
JOHNSON,  Robert  Barbour 
The  Life-After-Death  of  Mr. 
Thaddeus  Warde,  Nov.  ’64  50 
KEANE,  Jerryl  L. 

The  Other  One,  Nov.  ’63  82 
KELLER,  David  H. 

The  Seeds  of  Death,  Feb.  ’64  5 
KIPLING,  Rudyard 
The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie 
Jukes,  Nov.  ’63  107 
The  Mark  of  the  Beast,  May  ’64  75 
LIEBSCHER,  Walt 
The  Morning  the  Birds  Forgot  to 
Sing,  Sept.  ’64  85 
Prodigy,  Nov.  ’64  30 
LIPTON,  Dean 

Hungary’s  Female  Vampire 
Nov.  ’63  49 
LONG,  Frank  Belknap 
The  Man  With  a  Thousand  Legs, 
Aug.  ’63  7 

The  Space-Eaters,  Nov.  ’63  7 
LOVECRAFT,  H.  P. 

The  Dreams  in  the  Witch-House, 
May  ’64  88 

LOWNDES,  Robert  A.  W. 

Clarissa,  Nov.  '63  103 
Introductions,  Fillers,  and  Com¬ 
ment,  Aug.  ’63  ff 


HATVANY,  Attila 
A  Dream  of  Falling,  May  [64  58 
HAWTHORNE,  Nathaniel 
Dr.  Heideggers  Experiment, 
Nov.  ’64  71 


HIRSCH,  Janet 

The  Seeking  Thing,  Feb.  ’64  28 
HOCH,  Edward  D. 

The  Maze  and  the  Monster, 

Aug.  ’63  52 

The  Faceless  Thing,  Nov.  ’63  34 
HUNGER,  Anna 

Beyond  the  Breakers,  May  ’64  5 


MANNING,  Laurence 
Caverns  of  Horror,  Nov.  ’64  5 
MARSH,  Richard 
A  Psychological  Experiment, 

May  ’64  47 
MILLER,  J.  L. 

Love  at  First  Sight,  Sept  ’64  38 
O’BRIEN,  Fitz-James 
What  Was  It?,  May  ’64  18 
PAYES,  Rachel  Cosgrove 
’  The  Door,  Feb.  ’64  60 
POLLOCK,  Frank  Lillie 
The  Last  Dawn,  Aug.  ’63  107 


125 


126 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


PROUT,  Merle 
The  House  of  the  Worm, 
Sept.  ’64  56 


SHEA,  J.  Vernon 

Five-Year  Contract,  Sept.  ’64  42 
SILVERBERG,  Robert 
The  Unbeliever,  Aug.  ’63  92 
SMITH,  Clark  Ashton 

The  Door  to  Saturn,  Nov.  ’64  103 
STAMPER,  W.  J. 

Fidel  Bassin,  Aug.  '63  99 
TIGRINA 

Last  Act :  October,  May  ’64  31 
TWAIN,  Mark 

The  Undying  Head,  Aug.  ’63  118 

WAIGHT,  George 
The  Electric  Chair,  Nov.  ’63  70 


WELLS,  H.  G. 

The  Inexperienced  Ghost, 

Aug.  ’63  80 

The  Red  Room,  Nov.  ’63  39 
A  Vision  of  Judgment,  Feb.  ’64  32 
The  Truth  About  Pyecraft, 

May  ’64  65 

The  Beautiful  Suit,  Sept.  ’64  74 
The  Moth  Nov.  ’64  93 

Aug.  ’63  29 
S. 

WILKINS-FREEMAN,  Mary 
Luella  Miller,  Feb.  ’64  68 
WOLLHEIM,  Donald  A. 

Babylon-.  70  M.,  Aug.  '63  72 
Doorslammer,  Nov.  ’63  65 
Bones,  Sept.  ’64  90 


WEST,  Wallace 
A  Thing  of  Beauty, 
WHITEHEAD,  Henry 
Cassius,  Sept.  ’64  5 


INTRODUCTION  (Continued  From  Page  4) 

this  was  the  Depression.  A  two-dollar  book  was  out  of  the  ques¬ 
tion.  A  one-dollar  cheap  edition  might  be  possible  at  birthdays 
or  Christmas.  Dracula  was  to  be  had  at  the  library,  but  not 
Frankenstein;  somehow  an  extra  quarter  a  month  could  be 
found  for  Weird  Tales,  when  the  latter  novel  was  reprinted  in 
1932. 

Around  1931,  I  started  corresponding  with  science  fiction 
readers,  whose  letters  I  saw  in  the  readers’  departments  of  the 
various  science  fiction  magazines.  We  talked  about  the  reprint 
question,  and  I  found  that  the  situation  was  pretty  good  for 
fans  living  in  New  York  and  some  of  the  other  big  cities.  Li¬ 
braries  had  hard-cover  science  fiction,  and  back  issues  of 
Argosy  and  the  other  Munsey  magazines  could  be  found  for 
nickels  and  dimes;  second  hand  dealers  did  not  realize  the  prices 
they  could  ask  for  these,  in  many  instances.  But  with  fans 
from  towns  and  villages,  it  was  an  entirely  different  story; 
many  of  them  envied  me  when  I  told  them  what  was  to  be  had 
at  the  Darien  library. 

Now,  in  1964,  things  are  better,  you  think.  Not  so  very 
much  so,  if  you  read  the  letters  I  receive.  People  living  in  small 
towns  do  not,  by  any  means,  find  these  old  stories  “readilv 
available”.  RAWL  * 


If  You  Missed  Our  Previous  Issues 

There  are  still  a  few  copies  left:  Here  is  a  partial  list  of  contents, 
showing  best-liked  stories  in  the  first  four  issues. 

August  1963:  The  Man  With  a  Thousand  Legs,  by  Frank  Belknap  Long; 
The  Yellow  Sign,  by  Robert  W.  Chambers;  The  Unbeliever,  by  Robert  Sil- 
verberg;  The  Last  Dawn,  by  Frank  Lillie  Pollock;  Babylon:  TOM,  by 
Donald  A.  Wollheim. 

November  1963:  Clarissa,  by  Robert  A.  W.  Lowndes;  The  Space-Eaters, 
by  Frank  Belknap  Long;  The  Charmer,  by  Archie  Binns;  The  Faceless 
Thing,  by  Edward  D.  Hoch;  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes,  by 
Rudyard  Kipling. 

February  1964:  The  Seeds  of  Death,  by  David  H.  Keller;  The  Repairer 
of  Reputations,  by  Robert  W.  Chambers;  The  Place  of  the  Pythons,  by 
Arthur  J.  Burks;  The  Seeking  Thing,  by  Janet  Hirsch;  They  That  Wait,  by 
H.  S.  W.  Chibbett. 

May  1964:  The  Dreams  in  the  Witch-House,  by  H.  P.  Lovecraft;  The 
Mark  of  the  Beast,  by  Rudyard  Kipling;  What  Was  It?  by  Fitz-James 
O’Brien;  Beyond  the  Breakers,  by  Anna  Hunger;  A  Dream  of  Falling,  by 
Henry  James. 

September  1964:  Cassius,  by  Henry  S.  Whitehead;  The  Ghostly  Rental, 
by  Henry  James;  The  House  of  the  Worm,  by  Merle  Prout;  Five-Year  Con¬ 
tract,  by  J.  Vemon  Shea;  Bones,  by  Donald  A.  Wollheim;  A  Stranger  Came 
to  Reap,  by  Stephen  Dentinger;  Love  At  First  Sight,  by  J.  L.  Miller;  The 
Beautiful  Suit,  by  H.  G.  Wells;  The  Morning  The  Birds  Forgot  To  Sing, 
by  Walt  Liebscher. 

The  coupon  beneath  is  for  your  convenience,  but  you  need  not  use 
it  if  you  don’t  want  to  cut  up  this  magazine. 

Please  print  name  and  address. 


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127 


LOOK  INTO  THE  FUTURE! 

The  Complete 
Prophecies  of 

Nostradamus 

For  three  hundred  years  the  Prophecies  of  Nostrada¬ 
mus  in  a  complete  English  edition  has  been  one  of  the 
World’s  rarest  and  most  wanted  books. 

Whenever  available,  this  amazing  and  inspirational 
work  has  fetched  hundreds  of  dollars. 

This  present  edition  includes  all  of  the  original  Old 
French  Text,  an  exact  literal  English  Translation  and  an 
interpretation  and  explanation  of  each  and  every  one  of 
the  more  than  1,000  Predictions  extending  into  the  year 
3797  A.D. 

Mr.  Henry  C.  Roberts  the  editor  has  spent  a  lifetime 
of  research  in  the  occult  and  metaphysical  basis  of  Clair¬ 
voyance,  Prophecy,  and  Extra-sensory  Perception  and 
has  used  this  work  as  daily  working  guide  to  look  into 
the  future. 

The  Complete  Prophecies  of  Nostradamus  is  priced  at 
only  $6.00.  Please  print  name  and  address. 


HEALTH  KNOWLEDGE,  Dept.  H6. 

119  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  3,  N.  Y. 

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to  year  3797  A.D.  I  enclose  $6.00. 

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128 


MAGAZINE  OF  HORROR 


129 


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CAVERNS  OF  HORROR 

PRODIGY 

THE  MASK 

THE  LIFE-AFTER-DEATH  OF 

MR.  THADDEUS  WARDE 

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DR.  HEIDEGGER’S  EXPERIMENT 

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THE  MOTH 

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